When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 160 He couldn't wait to see me meet someone else in the finals.

When Mendes pushed open the locker room door, the room was still filled with the mixed smell of champagne and sweat.

These guys who just made it to the Champions League final are having a blast.

"guys!"

Mendes greeted him in a thick Portuguese accent, "Patrice, your performance on the left wing today was impressive."

Evra walked over and shook hands with him.

Behind him followed a tall, thin man in sportswear, his baseball cap pulled low.

The locker room fell silent for two seconds.

Rothen looked down at the tall, thin young man.

A nervous face peeked out from under the baseball cap—a face with freckles and a tightly pursed mouth.

He whistled: "Wow, a Manchester United star!"

Several teammates laughed along, but there was no malice in it.

Juli, who was applying hair gel to her hair, waved in this direction.

The hairdryer in the corner stopped.

Roy tossed the towel over his shoulder, and water droplets slid down his abs.

His hair was still dripping wet when he turned around, but his eyes had already lit up: "Jorge!"

Roy looked down at his wet chest and was about to raise his hand to signal when Mendes strode forward and gave him a bear hug without hesitation.

“Hey, I’m soaking wet—” Roy reminded him with a laugh.

Mendes patted him on the back without a care.

“To hell with suits,” he chuckled in Roy’s ear. “If you keep this up, the Golden Globe judges will have to write you thank-you notes!”

"Mourinho just texted me saying that this was the most perfect striker performance he has ever seen."

"I hope to see him in Gelsenkirchen on May 26."

Roy gestured toward the TV in the locker room, which was showing a pre-match analysis of Porto vs. Deportivo. "But we'll have to see who advances tomorrow, them or Deportivo."

"Believe me, José's team will definitely win tomorrow. See you in the final, he will definitely come to greet you in person."

Roy suddenly lowered his voice, a sly smile playing on his lips: "Jorge, this is a golden opportunity—'Mendes Derby,' how about that title? I, along with half of Porto's first-team squad, plus their coach, are all under your wing."

Mendes raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes.

He nodded thoughtfully: "Good heavens, Roy, sometimes I really wonder if you should switch careers and become an agent."

Then, Roy looked at the awkward young man, wiped his hand on his trouser leg, and stretched out his hand: "Cristiano. Long time no see."

His movements were fluid and natural, just like when he was treating his own younger brother.

When Roy grabbed Ronaldo's wrist, the force was warm yet firm, carrying an affection that couldn't be refused, yet without making anyone uncomfortable.

He turned to the locker room and shouted, "You all know him, right? The future of Portugal—"

"Ferguson really struck gold. If the Golden Boy award had gone to someone else this year, I would have torn down the headquarters of Tuttosport."

Roy laughed and said, "I remember last year L'Équipe asked me who the 'Figo 2.0' was. I told them it should be Quaresma."

"Why?" Cristiano Ronaldo couldn't help but ask.

"Because Cristiano is Cristiano, you are different from everyone else."

Roy said confidently, "Look at this now, Quaresma is barely getting playing time at Barcelona, ​​while you? You're sure to become a world-class player in the future."

From a corner of the locker room came Giuly's jeers: "When did Roy switch careers to become a scout?"

But Ronaldo had already straightened his back unconsciously, his eyes shining.

Although the two had actually met no more than three times, Roy's tone made it sound as if they had trained together just yesterday.

Congratulations on making it to the finals!

Cristiano Ronaldo's voice sounded a little strained, but his tone became much more sincere.

Roy waved his hand with a chuckle: "We're all brothers, why say such things?"

He casually picked up an unopened bottle of mineral water from the locker bench, twisted it open, and handed it to Ronaldo, saying, "Next season in the Champions League, maybe it'll be your turn to beat us up in the final."

"Let's visit each other more often. I've heard Madeira Island has beautiful scenery? We can chat sometime."

Cristiano Ronaldo took the water, his guard largely lifted, and asked, "You've been there?"

“Not yet,” Roy shrugged, “but Jorge always says the paella there is worth flying all the way to. Next time you go back to Portugal, call me, and we can train together for a few days.”

Mendes stood behind the two and nodded slightly.

He knows this process all too well.

First, get the young person to lower their guard, then give them a way out, and finally leave an excuse for meeting again next time.

A perfect social rhythm.

Although Roy is only five months older than Ronaldo and both are nineteen years old, one is like an old fox, while the other is still like a big boy with innocent eyes.

At this moment, Mendes leaned over and whispered, "A few British stars just finished watching the Champions League and want to meet you. The one leading them is Jude Law, who contacted me through Paul Blanco, a Portuguese producer in Hollywood."

Roy nodded after listening: "Okay, I'll stay in London for a couple more days."

Nighttime at Annabel's Club in London.

It is a private members-only club located at 46 Berkeley Square, Mayfair, London.

Roy stood in the corner, holding a glass of champagne.

Jude Law's private party was a huge success.

Robbie Williams hummed a song at the piano, Kate Moss chatted and laughed with her friends, and Elton John raised a glass to him.

At that moment, British director and producer Danny Cannon walked over.

“I heard your story is more exciting than any movie,” Danny said, taking a sip of his drink. “I’m working on a movie called ‘Goal!’ and I’d like to adapt your story.”

Goal! tells the inspiring story of Mexican immigrant teenager Santiago's rise from a slum cleaner in Los Angeles to a Premier League star.

Roy raised an eyebrow, finding it amusing.

He had watched this movie several times in his previous life, but he never expected that he would have to make his own version in this life.

He took a sip of his drink and said casually, "Oh? That depends on how you make it up."

Danny leaned closer excitedly and whispered, “Listen, the story begins like this: 2004, Beverly Hills, California. Sixteen-year-old Roy-Lin would go with his father to mow lawns for wealthy people every day before dawn. His great-grandfather was a Chinese railroad worker, and his mother was a French immigrant.”

He took a sip of his drink and continued, "This kid always takes advantage of the fact that no one is around to kick an old ball that's almost worn out on his employer's pristine lawn. And what about that family's young master? He's decked out in the latest Adidas gear, and he can't even catch the simplest ball control."

"Imagine this scene: the morning sun shines in, on one side a Chinese boy in a faded T-shirt dribbles the ball smoothly, on the other side a white boy dressed in designer clothes stops the ball three meters away."

"Roy's idol is not Beckham, but Zidane. He has a 98 French team poster on the wall of his tool shed, which is almost faded but is still hanging there."

Roy nodded: "It's a good thing it's Zidane."

He swirled his glass and said half-jokingly, "If it were Henry, I wouldn't be making this movie."

Danny laughed knowingly, and the two clinked glasses.

“His father always scolded him: ‘Can playing football put food on the table? Your grandfather swept Chinatown his whole life!’ His father wanted him to honestly earn money to support the family, thinking that playing football was a waste of time. But his grandmother secretly slipped him a Zidane trading card and her life savings: ‘Come on, don’t live like us.’”

Roy's expression changed slightly.

"The story continues—a Premier League club is visiting the United States. That day, Roy Lin was cleaning at the back door of the hotel and started juggling a ball out of boredom. He happened to be spotted by a Manchester City player who had a grudge against Sun Jihai and got excited whenever he saw an Asian face."

"'Hey, the Chinese can play football too?' The player sneered." Danny imitated the arrogant tone. "Roy didn't say a word, just flicked the ball into the air, and dribbled past the guy three times in a row. The guy didn't even touch the ball."

He made an exaggerated expression: "The player's face looked like he'd swallowed a fly. Less than a week later, the tryout notice arrived at Roy's house. His dad hid the shoes without saying a word and just said, 'Get out now if you want, don't expect to come back.'"

“You filmmakers just love this kind of dramatic stuff.”

“Life is sometimes more exciting than a movie, isn’t it?” Danny smiled and raised his glass.

Roy watched Danny's animated expression and gently swirled his wine glass.

At that moment, Jude Law came over with his drink and interjected, "If you ask me, why can't he join West Ham United?"

He winked at Roy, "The Hammer Gang needs a genius like you."

As an actor born in London, he has been a supporter of the East London team since childhood, and has often been photographed wearing a West Ham jersey to watch games. He has also mentioned his love for the team in interviews on numerous occasions.

The three exchanged a smile, and their wine glasses clinked together amidst the loud music.

Roy walked out of Annabel's club and got into the Maybach 62 that was already waiting.

The car slid out of the back alley and had just turned onto the streets of London when it was surrounded by the media who had been lying in wait.

Several reporters frantically pounded on the car windows, while others turned and ran towards their own cars, trying to catch up.

Roy leaned back in the back seat and rubbed his sore eyes.

Just hours ago, he was battling it out on the pitch at Highbury Stadium, his jersey soaked with sweat; now he's sitting in a luxury car, having just left one of London's top clubs, chatting with a director about bringing his story to the big screen.

Although this stark contrast in lifestyles is real, it still occasionally makes him feel disoriented—like stepping on two parallel lines.

After the Champions League semi-final, Deschamps, for the first time ever, did not allow the team to celebrate.

But Evra and a few of the younger players couldn't resist and sneaked off to a famous nightclub in London; meanwhile, Giuly and Rothen, along with a few older guys, set up a game of UNO in their hotel suite.

The calls came in almost simultaneously from both sides.

Roy's phone blared deafening music from a nightclub, and Evra yelled in the background, "Boss! We're at the hottest place in Soho!"

Giuly's voice was much gentler: "Roy, want to play a couple of rounds? Rothen says he can beat you three times."

Roy smiled and politely declined both invitations.

He then turned to his assistant, Heathlen, and said, "Tell me about the next steps."

"Tomorrow at 12:30 pm, Le Gavroche restaurant, second floor, window seat. You promised Makelele and Gallas last week, and they specially adjusted the training time."

“Nike is pushing hard,” he continued, “because of your 16 goals in the Champions League and your performance in leading Monaco to the Ligue 1 title eight rounds early. They want to finalize the official contract tomorrow. Not only is the base endorsement fee higher than originally agreed, but they have also prepared a complete promotional package for the Ballon d'Or and FIFA World Player of the Year awards.”

"I'm going to 442 magazine for a cover shoot at 3 pm the day after tomorrow. They changed the June issue's feature to your story at the last minute. The studio is in Covent Garden."

"At 7 p.m., Sky Sports and the BBC held a joint interview in a VIP box at Wembley Stadium. They specially found a videotape of you playing football in Boulogne when you were a child, saying they wanted to make a special feature 'From the Streets to the Champions League'."

As Heathlen was discussing the schedule, the silver Vertu phone in front of Roy suddenly lit up. Heathlen immediately stopped talking, and only after Roy nodded slightly did he quickly finish his sentence: "The BBC said they can adjust the schedule to suit your time."

Roy reached out and pressed the answer button, and Claire's efficient voice immediately came through the receiver: "It's settled."

Her voice was filled with barely concealed excitement, "They completely accepted our terms, including the global advertising allocation and the terms for using our image. It's even better than we expected."

Roy gently raised his wrist, revealing the Cartier Santos watch, which gleamed subtly in the dim light of the car interior.

A slight smile played on his lips: "Wouldn't a Rolex Daytona be a better match for this car?"

More commercial endorsements are not necessarily better.

He needs to carefully select a few of the most suitable brands for long-term cooperation; otherwise, shooting commercials and participating in events would fill up his entire season's rest time.

As for those small, sporadic endorsements, he would only selectively accept one-off advertisements when he had free time, just to make a quick buck.

He glanced down at the Cartier watch on his wrist and gently turned the dial.

He'd had this watch for a year, but now it seems it's time to switch to another brand.

Although he knew that the most prestigious Rolex watches were actually the Day-Date models worn by presidents, those gleaming gold dials always reminded him of the beer-bellied old directors in the club.

In comparison, the Daytona's racing timing dial is more youthful and sharp, or the Yacht Club's platinum rim is also good, both classy and not old-fashioned.

Roy's French name "ROI" (meaning "King") is a marketing treasure tailor-made for Rolex.

This young man, who dominated the Champions League at the age of 19, has a name that itself conveys the image of a "king".

Rolex's most classic advertising slogan is "A Crown for Every Achievement".

A young Champions League goal record breaker could help Rolex attract Gen Z consumers and mitigate the risk of an aging traditional customer base, since it can't rely solely on older wealthy individuals to buy watches.

Roy hung up the phone, tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest of his chair, and suddenly asked, "How's Rowan doing lately?"

“The American coach you hired for him sent a report last week saying that Rowan’s shooting percentage is now 30% higher than that of other basketball players his age.”

He paused, "But the kid keeps asking when his older brother can come watch him train."

Roy glanced at the streetlights flashing past the window, paused for a few seconds, and said, "It's time to send him to a proper youth training camp."

He turned to look at Hitzlsperger, "Take some time to go to Madrid and look at houses. Look for a neighborhood with tight security, preferably close to Real Madrid's youth academy."

Heathlen jotted down the words "Madrid real estate" in his notebook, his pen pausing briefly on the paper.

He knew Roy was planning to send his younger brother to Real Madrid's youth academy.

He also knew exactly what this meant – if he showed up at a real estate agency in Madrid, Marca would publish the headline "New Champions League King Plotting Transfer? Assistant Spotted in Madrid's Luxury District" within two hours.

He seemed to have already seen the headlines a few days ago: a photo of himself standing in front of a villa in the Salamanca district, captioned "Roy's confidant meets with Real Madrid executives".

Spanish journalists were even able to analyze from the areas where he viewed properties whether Roy preferred to live on the west or east side of the Bernabéu Stadium.

Heathlen sighed softly and drew an asterisk in the corner of the notebook.

You need to find a reliable real estate agent for this, preferably someone who can pretend to be an ordinary investor when viewing properties.

Jazz was playing from the Burmester radio in the car. Roy closed his eyes, as if he could already see his younger brother training on the sidelines of the Bernabéu stadium in a white jersey.

With a smile playing on his lips, he seemed completely unconcerned about the storm this would unleash on the Iberian Peninsula.

He knew that if Rowan were sent to Madrid, his mother would definitely have to go with him to take care of him.

We need to find the most professional security team to provide 24-hour protection.

Roy rubbed his temples, thinking to himself: There's already an older brother who plays professional soccer and a younger brother who plays basketball. If his younger sister, Romy, were to develop some athletic talent, this family might never be able to produce a decent college student.

He didn't necessarily want his sister to go to school.

If she suddenly becomes obsessed with gymnastics or tennis one day, he will still fully support her.

But every time he saw Romy reading, he felt that perhaps someone in this family should take a different path.

Roy's Maybach was parked in the back alley of the Claridge's Hotel.

Rainwater traced fine streaks on the car window, like the pent-up desires of the past 24 hours.

In yesterday's Champions League semi-final, Leticia was sitting in the VIP section of Highbury Stadium, but because of the pre-match rule of abstinence, he didn't even dare to make eye contact with anyone.

The phone lit up in the darkness, and Leticia's text message was brief and burning hot: "Room 2807. The champagne has been chilling for half an hour—as long as you've been showering."

This landmark hotel in Mayfair is Leticia's favorite; even in London, Parisian women strive for French elegance.

As Roy loosened his tie, a new text message popped up:
“I bought a jersey with my name on it, but it's too big for me.”

Roy's thumb paused on the keyboard for a moment before replying, "On va le remplir ensemble." (We can fill it together.)
At 3 a.m. at Heathrow Airport Terminal 3, Mendes, clutching the boarding pass for a cheap flight he had snagged at the last minute, jogged in front of the security checkpoint.

This shrewd Portuguese man preferred to squeeze onto a late-night flight where even meals were paid for, just to arrive in A Coruña before sunrise.

He knew that every minute could mean a new business opportunity.

The girl at the check-in counter already recognized the Portuguese man who occasionally appeared in the sports section of the London Evening Standard.

He leaned against the porthole, his fingers tapping incessantly on the armrest of his seat.

Tonight's match between Deportivo La Coruña and Porto will determine who will meet Monaco in the Champions League final.

Inside the cabin, Mendes, by the light of the reading lamp, was marking up a stack of transfer interest documents.

As the plane broke through the rain clouds over London, he was already planning how to turn this Champions League final into a springboard for his agency career.

If Mourinho's Porto advances, or even defeats Monaco to lift the Champions League trophy, Mendes can almost hear the sound of the vault doors opening.

That eccentric coach who always wore Armani trench coats will soon become a VIP guest on Abramovich's private jet.

He had already drafted the key points of the negotiations in his mind: Chelsea's blank check, Inter Milan's century-old heritage, and Real Madrid's Galácticos plan all had to be discussed in order.

Players like Deco, Carvalho, and Ferreira each had transfer fees of at least eight figures.

Mendes even prepared different versions of his recommendations in advance: for Barcelona, ​​he would emphasize Deco's Latin-style delicate technique, while for Manchester United, he would highlight Carvalho's English toughness.

The commissions from this batch of players alone would be enough for him to buy half an office building in Lisbon.

Indeed, this is the reality; Cristiano Ronaldo is the biggest star under Mendes's wing.

But the most profitable brand has never been Ronaldo, but Mourinho.

This eccentric manager is like a "human money-printing machine." Whenever he takes over a new powerhouse club, a large number of players from Mendes's team join the club.

When Mourinho went to Chelsea, his Portuguese contingent, including Ferreira and Carvalho, was immediately signed; after taking charge of Real Madrid, Mendes' clients, such as Pepe and Di Maria, flocked to the Bernabéu. Most remarkably, during his time at Manchester United, Mourinho brought five Mendes-affiliated players to Old Trafford, including Bailly and Dalot.

This "coach + player" package model has made Mendes a fortune.

Whenever Mourinho frowns at a press conference, it means another transfer deal is about to be finalized.

Logically, Mourinho's championship win should bring immediate benefits, with a large number of Porto players about to be snapped up by top clubs, and he could make a fortune just from commissions.

But strangely enough, he secretly hoped Roy would win.

There's something special about this 19-year-old French boy.

It's not just those dazzling statistics—the Champions League Golden Boot, two consecutive Ligue 1 titles, the Golden Boy award—it's also an indescribable superstar aura.

Mendes has seen too many geniuses, but Roy gave him the first sense of "witnessing history".

“Mourinho can make me quick money,” he thought to himself, “but Roy could change the whole game.”

What would it mean if we could really develop a player similar to Pelé or Maradona?
It's not just the sky-high transfer fees and endorsement commissions, but more importantly:

He will become synonymous with the most successful agent in football history.

In the future, all top rookies will come to us.

Even the club owner has to be mindful of his mood.

Mendes gazed at the dark night sky outside the porthole, then suddenly grinned and whistled lightly at the glass.

"Louco pra caramba!" (That's insane!)
"Incroyable!"
At 3 a.m., the air in suite 2807 of the Claridge's Hotel was still filled with the aroma of champagne and passion.

Roy lay on his back on the messy sheets, his chest heaving violently, beads of sweat sliding down the grooves of his abdominal muscles.

Leticia was panting heavily, her flushed face covered in fine beads of sweat, curled up next to Roy, her long golden hair clinging to her reddened shoulders and neck.

She murmured in French, her fingertips gently tracing the dark red scar on Roy's brow bone.

That's a mark left from colliding with Campbell during the semi-finals.

When Roy's fingertip touched the slightly raised scab, he reflexively squinted his left eye. This subtle muscle twitch made Leticia suddenly sit up.

"Does it still hurt?"

She suddenly licked the wound lightly with the tip of her tongue, like the girls stroking pigeons in the square of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.

Roy smelled the lingering citrus perfume in her hair, mixed with the sweat rising from her desire, which was more effective than any painkiller.

That Monaco number 10 jersey that I bought specifically for it.

The custom-made item printed with "CASTAL.10" is now hanging wrinkled at the foot of the bed, with a tear in the fabric on the right shoulder.

After a long time.

Roy reached for his phone on the bedside table, and three unread text messages from Mendes popped up on the screen.

Leticia gently poked Roy's lower back with her toe and asked lazily, "Who is it so late?"

Roy glanced at his phone: "Mendes. He's so excited he can't wait to see me and another guy meet in the final."

She scoffed, rolled over, and let her long hair spread across the snow-white sheets: "Are all agents like this? In the middle of the night, all they can think about is the finals and commissions? How are you going to reply to him then?"

Roy raised his eyebrows:

“I said, his money tree is watering the French rose.”

On the evening of May 6, 2004, the second leg of the Champions League semi-final kicked off at the Riazor Stadium amidst wind and rain.

Despite the presence of the King of Spain, Deportivo La Coruña failed to continue their home comeback victory against AC Milan.

The match was highly charged, with Porto scoring a controversial penalty in the 58th minute, which was converted by the returning Derley.

Deportivo La Coruña, already trailing, suffered a further blow when captain Nabet was sent off in the 70th minute after receiving two yellow cards, while Porto defender Carvalho escaped punishment for an elbowing foul on Valerón in the penalty area.

Deportivo La Coruña, playing with ten men, ultimately lost 0-1, and Porto advanced to the European final for the second consecutive year with a 0-1 aggregate score.

This Portuguese team, led by the young manager Mourinho, is on track to win the Champions League again, following their UEFA Cup victory last year.

(End of this chapter)