When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 167 Monaco will always be your home, but the world awaits you.

Two UEFA staff members placed the Champions League trophy on a special worktable on the sidelines.

One of the older technicians put on a magnifying glass and took out a carving knife and measuring tools from the toolbox.

He carefully measured the position of the metal plate on the base and began to engrave the words "AS MONACO 2004" stroke by stroke.

Metal shavings fell slowly as he moved.

In the jubilant center of the Verdon Stadium, Monaco players linked arms and bowed to the stands in gratitude.

In the red and white stands, tens of thousands of Monaco die-hards waved scarves and sang loudly.

In various corners, you can see many fans holding signs that read "Roy No. 10"—there are young girls who came from Japan, Chinese families wearing Monaco jerseys, and even a few elderly British fans with white hair.

Seeing this, Captain Kuri called on the whole team to bow deeply to these supporters who had come from afar once again.

Roy ran to the sidelines and looked up at the little hands waving frantically in the front row of the stands. Many children were holding up signs that read, "Can I have your jersey?"

He stood on tiptoe, rolled his sweat-soaked jersey into a ball, and aimed at the little boy wearing a Monaco team cap with bright, sparkling eyes.

"Here you go, little champion!"

He tossed it with force, and his jersey traced an arc.

The little boy caught it in a flurry of activity, his face flushed with excitement.

Roy made a fist bump gesture, and the boy immediately understood, leaning out and extending his small fist over the railing.

Roy jumped up and stretched out his arms.

"boom"

The two men's fists lightly touched in the air, eliciting envious screams from the young fans around them.

He winked at the children, turned and ran towards his teammates who were thanking him, behind him came the little boy's tearful cry:
"I'll always support you, Roy!"

But just as Roy turned around, a commotion suddenly broke out in the northwest corner of the stands.

Several fans suddenly stood up and waved anxiously toward the tunnel.

Roy stopped and frowned as he looked over.

The crowd parted like a tide, and a white-haired old man could be vaguely seen slumped in a chair.

The security personnel's walkie-talkies were flashing red as they desperately pushed their way in against the flow of people.

"Doctor! Call the doctor quickly!"

Someone shouted at the top of their lungs.

"Jean-Pierre! Where's your medicine? Find it now!"

"Oh my god, his face is turning purple! Quick, help him up!"

"Make way! I'm a doctor! Let me take a look!"

"Don't surround him so tightly! Give him some air!"

"Lay him flat! Quickly loosen his collar!"

"God, please don't let anything happen!"

"Make way! Paramedics!"

The staff's voices were drowned out by the cheers.

Roy instinctively took half a step in that direction, but the assistant coach grabbed his arm: "Don't go, kid, the medical team will handle it."

He pointed to the championship trophy waiting in the center of the arena.

a few minutes ago.

76-year-old Jean-Pierre Monardi stood up shakily, his wrinkled face flushed red.

He trembled as he raised the red and white scarf he had used for twenty years, and shouted with all his might, "We are the champions!!!"

Before he could finish speaking, the old man suddenly clutched his chest and fell backward as if all his strength had been drained away.

Marc, the chubby neighbor wearing the same jersey, reacted quickly and grabbed him, exclaiming, "Jean-Pierre! Your heart stent!"

Chaos erupted immediately around them.

Anna, the German nurse in the front row, immediately rushed over and skillfully unbuttoned the top two buttons of the old man's shirt.

Someone shouted, "Call an ambulance!" and several young fans frantically pulled out their phones.

Stadium security personnel pushed through the crowd and used walkie-talkies to call the medical team.

“Hang in there, old man,” Mark said, his voice trembling as he gently laid the old man down in his chair. “You’ve waited over forty years to see Monaco win the title, you can’t give up now.”

In Jean-Pierre's unfocused pupils, only the blurry lights in the center of the stadium remained.

His lips trembled as he managed to squeeze out the last few words:

"Fuck, we're really Champions League winners?"

The orange vests of the paramedics appeared and disappeared in the crowd, and the sound of stretchers hitting seats mingled with the cheers of the fans.

After the final, UEFA usually opens the family area passage, allowing players' family members (spouse, children, parents, etc.) to enter the stadium from the stands.

Security personnel at the AufSchalke stadium quickly pulled up the fence around the family quarters.

The players' families flooded onto the pitch.

Luo Yi's mother, Chen Lan, held her son Luo Wen's hand tightly in one hand and put her other hand on her daughter Luo Mi's shoulder. The three of them carefully walked forward on the soft grass.

Romy's eyes sparkled as she kept tiptoeing to look around.

Rowan jumped around excitedly, almost tripping over the scattered ribbons.

"Walk slowly," Chen Lan whispered, "Your brother is just ahead."

Not far away, Juri was whispering to his wife, his arm around her waist.

Their youngest son, Diego, suddenly broke free from his mother's hand and charged like a small cannonball toward Roy, who was celebrating with his teammates.

"Roy! Roy!"

Diego ran and shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the cheers.

He lunged forward and hugged Roy's leg, tilting his little face up: "You promised you'd teach me that turn if I scored!"

Roy bent down, lifted the little guy up, spun him around, and smiled as he pressed his forehead against the little boy's forehead: "See you at the training ground in a few days, little soldier."

At that moment, Giuly walked over, pretending to have a stern face: "Hey, Diego, your real father is right here!"

He reached out and pinched his son's cheek. "Why aren't you this enthusiastic towards me?"

Diego squirmed in Roy's arms, giggling, "Daddy, you can't do the rainbow jump!"

Roy shrugged and laughed, "Did you hear that, Ludo? It's because you can't do a rainbow flick."

Juli clutched his chest dramatically: "That's so hurtful!"

He turned to his wife and said, "Looks like I need to sign up for a soccer class."

"Come on," his wife said, suppressing a laugh. "You're so clumsy, you can't even put together our son's Lego set properly."

Diego suddenly patted his father on the shoulder: "But Dad is the best at saving penalties!"

Giuly immediately puffed out his chest proudly: "Did you hear that? My son said I'm the best goalkeeper!"

Roy laughed and put Diego down: "Alright, alright, you guys win."

See you at the training ground tomorrow, remember our promise.

Chen Lan held Luo Wen and Luo Mi's hands tightly and walked through the cheering crowd toward Roy.

Her vision blurred.

The hardships of the past decade or so flooded back at this moment: Roy, who lost his father at the age of four, with his little face red from the cold at the Lille youth training camp; his stubborn back as he held back tears at the airport when he went to Madrid alone at the age of fourteen; and his son's seemingly relaxed words on the phone after being "dealt with" by Real Madrid to Monaco for 300,000 euros last year: "Mom, this is a new beginning."

Romy suddenly broke free from her mother's hand and leaped towards Roy like a fawn.

She hugged her brother's waist tightly, burying her face, still covered in confetti, in Roy's chest: "Brother, you promised you'd take me to Disneyland if we won!"

Roy bent down, picked up his sister, spun her around, and whispered in her ear, "Not just Disney, this time let's go to Disneyland Paris and stay at the castle hotel, okay?"

Chen Lan stood a few steps away, quietly wiping away the tears that had fallen with the back of her hand.

Roy let go of his sister and walked to his brother, who had been standing to the side.

He gently put his arm around Rowan's thin shoulders, and the two of them looked together at the gleaming silver Big Ear Cup not far away.

“See that?” Roy said, pointing to the trophy engraved with the names of past champions. “It’s the most special trophy in the world of football. Only one team can take it home every year.”

Rowan lowered his head and rubbed the turf with his toes.

He knew that his brother would be sending him to a basketball youth training camp in Madrid next week, just like his brother had been sent to a football youth training camp years ago.

"Brother," the little boy said in a muffled voice, "do basketball have trophies like this?"

Roy crouched down so his line of sight was level with his brother's: "Of course. But no matter what sport it is, to lift a trophy like this..."

He pointed to his younger brother's chest, "This place needs to hold enough sweat and tears."

In the distance, a photographer is calling the champion team to take a group photo.

Rowan suddenly grabbed his brother's wrist: "Can you come watch me play my first match?"

Roy held his brother's hand in his palm, touching the calluses from practicing: "Not only will I watch, but I'll also record it from the sidelines, just like the coach used to film my training videos."

He added with a laugh, "But if you dare to lose focus on the court, I guarantee I'll yell at you even more fiercely than the basketball coach."

Roy looked around; the entire stadium was immersed in a sea of ​​celebration.

Morientes held his wife tightly, forehead to forehead, a rare tenderness on the face of the Spaniard; Pulso carefully moved his sleeping young son to his left shoulder, his right hand naturally encircling his wife's waist, the little boy's drool wetting his sweat-soaked jersey; on the sidelines, Ribery was whispering something to his father, François, the old man's rough hands patting his son's back; further away, Maicon's Brazilian family was already waving their yellow and green flags impatiently, his mischievous nephew trying to climb over the advertising boards to reach the confetti on the sidelines.
Although the trophy still gleams in the waiting area, and the heavy medal has not yet been hung around the neck, the Veltins-Arena is already filled with the purest happiness.

Leticia Costa jogged over in her high heels, grabbed Roy's neck, and gave him a deep kiss.

"Oh my god, you're absolutely amazing!"

Her red lips almost touched Roy's nose. "That goal just now, I was going crazy!"

Roy let his girlfriend's perfume scent envelop him.

A faint smile played on her lips, but her gaze drifted into the distance.

Leticia was still excitedly talking, but the sound of rain on the Amsterdam canals two months ago echoed in his ears.

Douchen-Klose pushed the now-cold coffee aside: "Roy, let's wrap this up."

"what happened again?"

Roy was replying to his agent's messages on his phone without looking up.

Du Chen's fingers gently caressed the rim of the coffee cup, his voice trembling slightly: "You know what? Every time I see you smiling at the camera on the court, I feel like a complete stranger to you."

She looked up, her eyes reddening: "I'm so afraid, so afraid that one day I'll discover that all that tenderness that moved me was just part of your social media presence. Rather than waiting until I lose you completely, it's better to..."

Roy frowned: "What are you talking about? Everyone's talking about me."

"Yes, everyone says you are enthusiastic, talkative, and have a lot of confidence."

Du Chen gave a bitter smile, a tear falling into her coffee. "But only I know that when you receive a call from your family late at night, you can't even say 'I miss you'."

She gripped the cuffs of her trench coat tightly: "Roy, you're colder to the bone than the canals of Amsterdam in winter."

Roy paused for a moment, then suddenly said, "At least wait until after the Champions League final. The buzz from winning will take your modeling career to the next level, and we can..."

The coffee cup landed heavily on the table.

Du Chen grabbed his coat and stood up, the last trace of warmth vanishing from his eyes: "Love isn't a transaction for exposure. I wish you the best of luck in winning the championship, Roy."

She turned and walked into the rain, never looking back.

"Honey?"

Leticia shook his arm in annoyance. "Are you even listening to me?"

"of course."

Roy looked away and casually brushed the strands of hair stuck to Leticia's lip gloss.

"Time for a group photo!"

A teammate shouted from a distance.

Roy smiled to himself, thinking that he would probably never learn to love like an ordinary person.

But it doesn't matter, football has never betrayed him, and the taste of victory is more real than anyone else's lips.

As soon as the final whistle blew, twelve venue workers in dark blue uniforms rushed onto the field pushing metal supports.

They used an electric screwdriver to secure the steps of the podium, and two staff members wearing white gloves unfolded a 30-meter-long dark red carpet, with the edges fixed to the turf.

UEFA President Johansson walked out of the players' tunnel, holding the Champions League trophy in both hands.

He was wearing a navy blue suit, and the UEFA logo on his tie clip gleamed under the lights.

Referee Kim Milton Nelson accepted the silver medal first and bowed his head to let Johansson hang it around his neck.

Then, the Porto players lined up and walked onto the podium, each with their head down.

They were all quiet when they received the silver medal; no one spoke, they just mechanically went through the motions of accepting the award.

The Monaco players stood aside and spontaneously applauded them.

Giuly led the clapping, and Roy and Morientes followed suit.

The applause was particularly clear in the empty stadium, but the Porto players never looked up and simply walked silently down the steps.

The silver medals swayed gently on their chests, gleaming dimly under the stadium lights.

Mourinho walked slowly toward the podium. When UEFA President Johansson handed him the silver medal, he did not bow his head to wear it like the other players, but instead held it directly in his hand.

His gaze went past Johansson's shoulder and fixed on the large round glass placed to the side.

The trophy gleamed with a cold, silvery light under the lamp, and the "2004" inscription on the base was particularly glaring.

A dozen seconds passed, and the staff member behind me coughed softly.

Mourinho then came to his senses and stuffed the silver medal into his pocket.

As he turned and walked down the steps, his right hand remained in his pocket, gripping the silver medal tightly.

As he passed through the players' tunnel, he turned back for one last look at the celebrations on the field, then slapped his cheek hard.

He later wrote in his autobiography: "That silver medal has always been in my desk drawer, and I can see it every time I open it."

President Johansson stood on the podium, holding the heavy gold medal in his hand.

The Monaco players walked forward in order, each one unable to hide their excitement.

Giuly was the first to receive the award. He bowed slightly as Johansson hung the gold medal around his neck.

Next was Roy, and Johansson gave him a second look as he walked up.

“Young man,” Johansson said in a low voice as he pinned the gold medal on Roy, “Platini just told me that you are the new hope of the French team.”

Platini, standing to the side, nodded and added, "A new flag, a rising star."

Roy smiled shyly and replied politely, "Thank you for your compliment, sir. It is an honor to hear Mr. Platini's praise."

Platini patted Roy on the shoulder: "Keep it up, kid."

Roy nodded, the gold medal gleaming on his chest.

As he turned to walk toward his teammates, he still had an undisguised smile on his face.

Morientes was the next player to receive the award, while Johansson continued his work.

Roy stood to the side, glancing down at the gold medal on his chest every now and then, then looking up at the cheering fans in the stands.

When UEFA President Johansson handed the Champions League trophy to Giuly, the Monaco captain took a deep breath and gripped the base of the trophy tightly with both hands.

His knuckles turned white from the force, and the weight of the trophy made him stagger slightly.

"Lift it up!"

His teammates shouted from behind.

Giuly took a deep breath and gripped the handle of the trophy tightly with both hands.

He turned to look at his teammates surrounding him and grinned.

“Trois deux un”

He counted down loudly, his voice trembling slightly.

"Allez Monaco!!!"

The whole team roared in unison, their voices echoing throughout the stadium.

Jiu Yong used all his strength to lift the trophy above his head, and the silver trophy gleamed under the spotlight.

"Oh!"

Twenty blowers started up simultaneously.

Red and white confetti rained down from the ceiling like an avalanche, instantly engulfing the podium.

Morientes squinted in surprise at the sudden shower of paper scraps, while Roy laughed and held out his hand to shield his eyes.

The pieces of paper pattered against the trophy, making a soft rustling sound, and a few stuck to Juli's sweaty forehead.

Roy and Morientes supported him on either side of his arms to help him maintain his balance.

Rothen jumped up and down behind him, patting him on the shoulder, while Evra tilted his head back and shouted at the trophy.

The Monaco fans in the stands erupted in cheers, with red and white confetti raining down from the rooftop.

Juli's arms trembled slightly from the effort, but the smile on his face grew brighter and brighter.

Roy stood beside Giuly, reaching out to hold the side of the trophy. Morientes, Rothen, Evra, and others also reached out to touch it, as if to confirm that this was not a dream.

Monaco fans in the stands cheered wildly, and many were in tears.

When Giuly handed the heavy trophy to Roy, the cold metallic touch made him hold his breath.

The trophy was heavier than he had imagined.

Roy carefully supported the base with both hands.

The silver cup shimmers with a soft glow under the light, and only upon closer inspection can one discover that its surface is covered with tiny scratches, each telling a different story of victory.

He gently turned the trophy and saw the newly engraved words "AS MONACO 2004". At that moment, Roy suddenly realized that he was holding not just a trophy, but a legend about to be recorded in history.

As the youngest champion in Champions League history, his name will forever be linked with this night.

The handle of the trophy is slightly shiny, a mark left by the countless hands of champions.

Roy's fingertips lingered on the trophy's inscription for a few more seconds.

The 19-year-old's face was illuminated by the flashlight, but his eyes burned brighter than any light on the field.

He suddenly remembered the Champions League promotional video he had seen on the locker room TV last week: the legends in those black-and-white images were also holding the same trophy.

Pedretti grabbed Roy's neck from behind, and Abidal and Roma squeezed in as well. Everyone huddled together, passing the trophy between them.

A ribbon landed on his eyelashes, and Roy blinked but didn't brush it away.

He stared at the trophy being passed around, his pupils reflecting not only the present silver gleam, but also the image of himself, as captain, lifting it alone someday in the future.

Three times? Five times? It certainly won't stop at this one time.

Photographers frantically pressed the shutter, their flashes creating a continuous barrage.

At this moment, Monaco's name was forever etched in the history of the Champions League.

【Ding--】

A cold, mechanical voice pierced the wave of revelry, and a flash of blue data suddenly appeared before Roy's eyes.

[Achievement Unlocked: Champions League Winner]

[Talent drawing in progress]

[Acquired: Ronaldinho's dribbling talent]

The iconic dribbling scenes of Ronaldinho flashed on my retina: Ronaldinho skillfully pedaled his bicycle kick, making the defenders wobble and play with him like wooden stakes; when he was surrounded by three defenders, he suddenly flicked the ball with his heel, and the ball slipped through the gaps between them, while he twisted and broke through on the other side.

And then there was that famous rainbow flick, where the ball arced over the defender's head, and Ronaldinho grinned as he chased after it, as if it were a casual game.

He feigned a pass, turning his entire body to the right, but at the last moment, he subtly flicked the ball away with his ankle, sending it in the exact opposite direction. The defending defender lost his balance and fell to the ground, while Ronaldinho had already dribbled away, leaving the entire stadium in awe.

In these images, every move Ronaldinho makes seems to defy gravity.

His body tilted to an angle where he was almost about to fall, but he always managed to regain his balance at the last moment.

His feet seemed to be equipped with magnets, and the ball was always stuck within his control.

Most incredibly, while performing these difficult moves, he always had that "this is very simple" smile on his face, as if telling the whole world: this is how football should be played.

Every detail is like a disassembled mathematical model, transforming into a blue data stream that flows into his motor nerves.

In Florentino's office, the television was broadcasting Monaco's championship celebration.

He clapped his hands lightly twice as the camera panned across Roy and Morientes.

"They did a good job."

He said this to the executives around him.

He turned to the sporting director beside him: "How are the talks with Mendes going?"

The director immediately opened the folder: "Mendes previously said Roy wouldn't make any decisions before the Champions League final. But now..."

Did Mendes specify a time?

He said he would give us a clear answer within the next two or three weeks.

“Call Mendes and tell him I want to speak with him in person. Madrid or Lisbon, it’s up to him.”

When the camera focused on a close-up of Roy receiving the Champions League final MVP trophy, he squinted slightly.

Although there is no physical trophy for the Champions League Golden Boot, the record of 17 goals has been etched in history.

And now, the glory of the European Golden Boot is destined to be etched in his name.

As Rafael Marquez and his girlfriend got up from the stands to leave the stadium, his girlfriend asked him why he didn't go and say hello to his former Monaco teammates.

Max still has an invitation from his agent Mendes to a Champions League victory party saved on his phone, but he declined it with an excuse.

At this moment, the words Roy had said to him on the balcony of the Giuly's house years ago resurfaced in his mind:
"When you stand at Camp Nou and hear the Champions League anthem, you'll think of tonight."

These words left him with mixed feelings, and he ultimately chose to leave silently.

The locker room door was suddenly pushed open, and the noise stopped abruptly.

Grand Duke Rainier III of Monaco strode in.

It's worth noting that this racing fan didn't even show up in the stands at the Monaco Grand Prix last Sunday.

Almost the entire Monaco royal family was present: Princess Caroline, who had just returned from the wedding of Prince Felipe of Spain, was accompanied by her two young princes, André and Pierre, as well as Charlotte, who had not been seen in public for a long time.

Even the unconventional Princess Stephanie made a rare appearance, showing up discreetly with her two children.

Even members of the royal collateral branches, who rarely appear in public, were present, surrounding Grand Duke Rainier III to witness this historic moment.

Charlotte Cassirach peeked out from behind Rainier III, tilting her head to examine Roy.

She hasn't appeared in the public eye for a long time. Since becoming fascinated with equestrianism, the little princess has spent almost all her time at the horse farm.

More than a year ago, she posed as a sports reporter and interviewed Roy, asking a bunch of irrelevant questions, but listened with great interest.

Later, Roy got a girlfriend, and she suddenly "lost interest in football" and never went to the stadium to watch him play again.

Now, her gaze shifted between Roy and the trophy, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“Father is overjoyed,” Crown Prince Albert, who was following behind, explained in a low voice to Deschamps, while gesturing to the servants to bring out a tray covered with red velvet.

Three rows of medals were neatly stacked on top, gleaming under the locker room lights.

“Gentlemen,” Rainier III’s voice sounded remarkably calm in the noisy dressing room.

"Gentlemen, what you have achieved today is not just a victory, but the glory of a nation. Monaco may be small, but tonight you have shown the world our ambition. This trophy will be forever etched in the history of the principality, just as the Stade Louis II will be forever etched at your feet."

"You have proven with your sweat that miracles never fail to happen on this land. As the Archduke of Monaco, I thank you for the pride you have brought to this country and for letting the red and white flag fly at the top of Europe. From today onwards, you are not only players, but also symbols of the Monaco spirit."

The attendants then presented the players with fifth-class knighthoods in turn.

When it was Giuly and Roy's turn, the Grand Duke personally pinned on their silver badges, which were rank for fourth-class officers.

“You are an excellent captain.” He pinned the medal to Giuly’s chest.

"For your goal," the Grand Duke gently patted Roy on the shoulder, a glint of expectation in his eyes.

He paused for a moment, then lowered his voice slightly: "We will remember each other that wherever you go in the future, the great journey begins here."

Roy looked down at the medal on his chest and smiled, "I will never forget my time in Monaco."

The Grand Duke's gaze seemed to already see this 19-year-old boy lifting even more trophies in the future.

“Monaco will always be your home,” he concluded, flicking Roy’s medal lightly with his finger, “but the world is waiting for you.”

Finally, the Grand Duke walked up to Deschamps and placed the commander's sash around the young marshal's neck.

“The coach’s medals,” he said, “are always the heaviest.”

When the locker room became noisy again, Roy discovered that his medals and gold medals were tangled together.

He was about to untie it when Morientes grabbed him and said, "Don't rush, you'll get even heavier ones later."

He lowered his voice, "Seriously, do you want to come back to Madrid with me?"

Roy smiled: "Morren, let's not talk about football tonight, okay?"

He smiled helplessly.

Morientes stared at him for a few seconds, then raised an eyebrow meaningfully.

The revelry in the locker room continued.

Roy leaned against the locker, clutching a half-empty bottle of champagne in his hand.

Evra held the Champions League trophy upside down on his head, champagne dripping from his bare chest onto the floor.

Maicon was wearing only his underwear, his lean body swaying to the rhythm of the samba, with his soaking wet jersey piled at his feet.

Caniggia leaned against his locker, the smoke from his cigar blurring his satisfied face. The veteran, who had finally achieved his dream of playing in the Champions League, decided to reject an offer from a Qatari team for next season and prepared to officially retire.

In the corner, Gallardo choked back tears as he spoke into the phone in Spanish, "Mom, we really did it."

Giuly was using his teeth to bite open the seventh bottle of champagne, and the gushing liquid splashed onto the ceiling like a golden rain.

The sound of running water in the shower, the shouts of teammates, the shattering of champagne bottles on the floor—all the sounds mixed together, like a song out of tune.

Roy suddenly laughed and downed the rest of the champagne in one gulp.

He knew that nights like that would never come again.

Even under the cover of night, Gelsenkirchen remained bustling with activity.

The streets were packed with Monaco fans celebrating wildly, shoulder to shoulder, dancing wildly and spilling beer everywhere.

Someone started singing off-key, and others immediately joined in, shouting along. The lyrics were indistinct, but the tune grew louder and louder.

A few young men simply jumped onto a roadside bench, their red and white scarves waving like flags in the night wind. Their beer glasses clinked together, and foam splashed onto the faces of those around them, eliciting a burst of laughter.

Some people even pulled out sparklers, sparks crackling and shooting into the air, illuminating their flushed faces.

Meanwhile, German police officers, holding batons, stood in a circle around the revelers.

Their fluorescent vests stood out starkly in the night, and their wary eyes swept over every fan waving a bottle.

Whenever a drunken fan staggered toward the police line, a policeman would step forward and use his strong arms to push the person back into the celebrating crowd.

As the team bus slowly drove out of the Veltins-Arena, hundreds of fans waiting outside the roadblocks suddenly erupted in cheers.

The fans, their faces flushed and veins bulging, roared "Monaco! Champions!" Their hoarse shouts, mixed with whistles, pierced the night sky.

The little girl in the back row rode on her father's shoulders, calling out "Roy! Roy!" in her childish voice, but was quickly drowned out by the men's deafening team song.

Through the fogged-up car window, Roy saw several boys wearing his number 10 jersey chasing after the bus.

The streetlights cast long shadows of them, like flowing flags.

The bus slowly drove away from the noisy stadium and turned onto the highway leading to the hotel.

The neon lights outside the car window flowed through the night, but the hoarse chants of "Allez Monaco!" from the fans could still be faintly heard, fading away like the tide.

At 3 a.m., Roy, wearing a hoodie, sneaked into the hospital accompanied by his assistant, Heathlen.

The on-duty doctor pushed up his glasses. The Champions League MVP suddenly appeared in the emergency room, almost making him spill his coffee.

He gently pushed open the ward door and saw old Monardi fast asleep with an IV drip, the electrocardiogram monitor on the bedside table beating regularly.

In the hospital room, Monardi's old friend Mark was keeping watch over him.

Upon seeing Roy, he jumped up, the chair scraping loudly on the floor.

Roy put his index finger to his lips and pulled a shoebox out of his backpack—inside were the shoes covered in grass clippings from last night's final.

“When he wakes up,” Roy handed the shoebox to Mark, “tell him this is the rent he owes you.”

As soon as Roy left, Mark opened the shoebox.

"Stay," a voice in my head urged, "These are the boots you wore to win the championship with Porto, enough for you to brag about for a lifetime."

He suddenly pulled the shoebox closer to his chest, then abruptly stopped.

Images from the past thirty years flashed before my eyes.

He and Monardi, two wealthy Monaco tycoons, insisted on squeezing into the die-hard supporters' stand, wearing flashy support clothing, and howling and wailing for every victory.

From the doubts when Deschamps took over two years ago, to the ecstasy of witnessing an unbeaten season, and then to the two old guys embracing and crying tonight when they won the Champions League.

Finally, he slammed the lid shut and slammed it down on his old friend's bedside table: "Damn, you're lucky."

The following afternoon, the entire Monaco team's plane landed at Nice Airport.

The runway was already packed with thousands of fans, the dense crowd stretching all the way to the airport fence.

The cabin door slowly opened, and Deschamps was the first to step out, sunlight shining on his tired but satisfied face.

Immediately afterwards, Roy and Giuly, one on each side, worked together to lift the Champions League trophy out of the hatch—the silver trophy gleamed in the sunlight.

In an instant, the cheers of the fans erupted like a tidal wave, shaking the track.

Reporters' cameras flashed wildly, and the sound of shutters clicking filled the air.

Roy squinted at the red and white flags waving in the distance, a slight smile playing on his lips.

Juli took a deep breath and raised the trophy even higher, and the cheers from the crowd rose again.

Deschamps stood on the gangway, glanced back at his teammates, and nodded slightly.

As the bus slowly drove into the city, the entire city was already in an uproar.

The streets seemed to come alive, every inch of space was bustling with life.

Crowds surged in from all directions, like countless tributaries flowing into the same frenzied river.

Arms waving were sticking out of every window between the buildings, balconies were crowded with people, and figures were standing on the rooftops as well.

Confetti and paper scraps fell from the sky like a never-ending snowfall.

The sounds of car horns, shouts from the crowd, and the vibrations of drums blended into a deafening roar.

The roads have completely disappeared, replaced by a constant surge of people.

The bus was like a small boat, struggling to move forward in the surging waves, having to push aside layers of people with each step forward.

The car windows were covered with handprints, and the car swayed slightly as the crowd pushed and shoved.

The outline of the stadium was faintly visible in the distance, but the road leading there had been completely submerged.

The entire city seemed to have been put on pause, with all the daily routines replaced by this carnival.

The air was thick with the smells of alcohol, sweat, and fireworks, and even the sunlight was fragmented by the dancing ribbons.

The bus eventually had to stop because there was no space left to pass.

The entire city transformed into a giant party scene, with everyone immersed in unprecedented madness.

On May 29, 2004, the Stade de France witnessed another victory for Monaco.

In this French Cup final, Monaco defeated Paris Saint-Germain 2-0, adding another trophy to this glorious season.

In the 21st minute of the match, Roy received a cross from Giuly at the edge of the penalty area and unleashed a powerful shot that flew into the top right corner of the goal.

Paris goalkeeper Letiz made a diving save, but the ball still grazed the underside of the crossbar and went into the net.

The moment the ball went into the net, the north stand erupted in cheers.

Red and white scarves billowed like ocean waves as fans roared their battle anthem: "We are invincible! We are the treble champions!"

For Monaco fans, the treble means that this small Mediterranean country can finally stand tall and speak with confidence in European football.

Those who were ridiculed by Marseille and Paris fans as "toys of the rich" and "mercenaries of a tax haven" have now silenced everyone with three heavy trophies.

Three minutes before the end of the first half, Rothen received a pass from Roy, broke through and cut inside, and suddenly shot from a very tight angle. The ball drew a strange arc and went into the net from near the post.

This unexpected goal completely disrupted Paris's defensive plans.

In the second half, despite Paris Saint-Germain's all-out counterattack, Monaco's solid defense gave their opponents no chance.

When the final whistle blew, Deschamps' team once again stood on the podium.

Monaco fans rushed onto the pitch in a frenzy.

This French Cup (the team's 6th title!) officially marks the completion of their epic treble!

On the podium, as Roy accepted the Man of the Game medal, the cheers from the stands suddenly turned into a unified chant: "Stay! Roy! Stay!"

He paused for a moment, then raised his arms and clapped above his head, a smile on his lips, but his eyes were looking into the distance.

The fans' shouts grew louder and louder, and Giuly nudged Roy on the shoulder: "If you stay, I'll stay."

Roy shook his head with a smile: "You know it's impossible, Ludo."

Suddenly, champagne foam sprayed from the side, drowning out the rest of the sentence.

Both of their faces were covered in alcohol, making it impossible to tell who was laughing and who was frowning.

Giuly wiped his face, and some wine dripped down his chin onto his jersey.

He stared at Roy's profile: "What are your plans?"

Roy glanced at his teammates celebrating in the distance and smiled.
"I'm so tired. I want to get some rest."

Deschamps walked over and stood silently beside Roy.

He put his hand on Roy's sweaty shoulder, and the cheers from the stadium surged in like a tidal wave.

My throat tightened, and I suddenly remembered that cold, gloomy afternoon in January 2003.

That day in the office at the Latilbi training center, the club doctor slammed Roy's medical report on the table, his fingers trembling: "This kid is a monster!"

Deschamps remembers repeatedly looking at the report: 30-meter sprint in 3.79 seconds, top speed of 36 kilometers per hour, these figures were unheard of in the football world at the time.

Assistant coach Petit leaned over and whispered, "Didier, we might have struck gold. His goal in that crushing defeat for Real Madrid wasn't a fluke."

Under the spotlights of the Velodrome Stadium, Roy performs a bicycle kick in the penalty area. As the ball hits the underside of the crossbar and bounces into the net, Van Buyten kneels down, covering his face.

At the Parc des Princes, Roy nutmegged Heinze, calmly deceiving the goalkeeper with a penalty kick to complete his hat-trick.

Amidst the sea of ​​red and white at the Stade Louis II, a lightning-fast goal was scored just 8 seconds into the game – Giuly's long pass swept across the halfway line, and Roy burst out like a bullet, receiving the ball and unleashing a powerful shot that set a new record for the fastest goal in Ligue 1.

The warmth emanating from the young body in his palm at that moment convinced him that the yellow sports car that brought back back then wasn't a 'new Henry,' but rather God's compensation to Monaco.

As for himself.

Juventus Football Club officially announced yesterday that Didier Deschamps will become the team's head coach, with a contract until June 2007 and an annual salary of 3 million euros.

This appointment ended a month-long suspense surrounding the selection of a new head coach.

Previously, the club had considered Didier Deschamps and Rafael Prandelli as candidates. The news first broke the night before last, and was reported by *La Gazzetta dello Sport* the following day, but official confirmation was not yet available at the time. With Reuters citing a statement from Juventus' press officer and the club's official announcement on its website, the appointment was finally finalized.

In a statement, Juventus expressed their hope that the young manager, who led Monaco to a treble, could usher in a new chapter of glory for the team.

Deschamps will begin assembling a coaching team starting today to prepare for the new season.

Just like turning off the lights and locking the door after training, just like how even the most brilliant teamwork on the court will eventually come to an end, coaches and players will eventually go on to the next stage of their journeys.

After seeing you for thousands of miles, we must say goodbye.

(End of this chapter)