When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 169 France's Sharpest Sword
6月5日，罗伊乘坐乌克兰国际航空，06:30从塞瓦斯托波尔起飞，08:00抵达基辅中转。

Roy had just sat down on a leather sofa in the Kyiv airport lounge, and before he could even bring himself to drink a cup of black coffee, he was recognized by several Ukrainian businessmen in suits.

"Mr. Roy!"

One of the men, sporting a meticulously trimmed beard, strode over, his thick Eastern European accent tinged with excitement. "Will you start in tomorrow's friendly match?"

The TV in the locker room was playing a pre-match interview with the Ukrainian team, and a few fans wearing yellow and blue jerseys sat around.

They practically booked the entire flight to Paris.

They excitedly surrounded him, wanting to take photos with him. He managed to manage to get around them, and then he saw his assistant, Heathlen, standing in the corner waiting.

Not far away, Leticia Costa leaned against a marble column, her phone pressed to her ear, a smile unconsciously playing on her lips.

Since her relationship with Roy was exposed, her agent's phone has been ringing off the hook.

"TF1's 'Celebrity Camp' and Canal+'s 'Tonight's Football' both want to have you on their shows," the agent's excited voice came through the phone. "The offers are very tempting. Will you consider it?"

Leticia bit her lower lip lightly, her gaze unconsciously drifting towards Roy, who was busy taking a group photo.

That summer, she suddenly became the most envied woman in all of France.

Not only because of love, but also because of those suddenly appearing sky-high contracts.

In fact, as early as 2000, she was voted by French mayors to be the "Marianne" image ambassador, which is an honor representing the spirit of France.

However, her acting career has been lukewarm, and she has appeared in magazines more often as a model.

But things are different now. As the partner of a rising star on the French national team, Roy's popularity will surely soar if he performs well in the European Championship.

These program invitations that came their way were precisely because they recognized this opportunity.

"Arriving in Paris at 12:15," Hitzlsperger said quickly as he walked over. "The team doctor has a medical appointment for 2 PM, and the physiotherapist will give you rehabilitation treatment at 3 PM. You must be at the Clairefontaine training ground by 6 PM for the friendly against Ukraine tomorrow. The day after, the whole team will fly to Portugal to begin closed training in Sint-Tirso near Porto before the European Championship."

Roy nodded: "Anything else?"

"A reporter from L'Équipe will be waiting for you at the airport; they want to interview you in ten minutes."

"No time."

Roy picked up his backpack and headed towards the boarding gate. "We'll talk about it after the European Cup."

At four o'clock in the afternoon, Roy drove to Clairefontaine and first took a detour to pick up Giuly.

As soon as Juli got in the car, he adjusted the seat back and settled comfortably into the passenger seat.

“To be honest,” Giuly said lazily, “I still have to read the newspaper every day to believe that we actually won the Champions League.”

Roy ignored his question about the Champions League and instead jokingly asked, "How's Santorini? Having fun?"

Juli squinted as he recalled, “Santorini, with its breathtakingly blue sea and dazzlingly white houses, where you could sleep in until you naturally woke up every day and spend an entire afternoon sitting in a café on the edge of a cliff.”

He turned to Roy, "The most amazing thing is the town of Oia at sunset. The whole sky looks like it's on fire, and the cruise ships leave golden ripples on the Aegean Sea."

“However,” he added with a wicked grin, “the bikini-clad beauties on Santorini are nowhere near as stunning as the girls on the sidelines of the football field. You must have seen plenty of them in Yalta, haven’t you?”

He laughed after saying that, since he had brought his wife and children with him this time and didn't dare to look at them for long.

Roy gripped the steering wheel, a sly smile playing on his lips: "I didn't read any of that. I was too busy checking the newspapers every day to make sure I really was the Champions League winner."

Juli was taken aback for a moment, then burst into a hearty laugh.

He suddenly changed the subject: "Seriously, where should I watch you play next month? White (Real Madrid), red (Manchester United), blue (Chelsea), or that classic black and white striped shirt (Juventus)? I think the Bianconeri would suit you well."

Before Roy could answer, he continued, "The boss is short of loyal followers, and you know his tactics. If we team up again, we might be able to win a couple more Champions League titles."

He nudged Roy with his elbow as he spoke, "Think about it, Platini and Zidane, the greatest Frenchmen, have all walked this road. I just don't understand why you're so resistant to Turin?"

Roy suddenly laughed and tapped his fingers lightly on the steering wheel twice: "You've been exposed, haven't you? So you've already made up your mind?"

He glanced sideways at Giuly, "Is the (transfer to Juventus) deal done?"

Juli shrugged: "I think it's pretty good."

Roy didn't reply, but remained silent for a moment before saying calmly, "You'll find out in a while. But for now..."

His gaze shifted to the Clairefontaine training ground, which was gradually coming into focus ahead. "I'd rather see the news of us winning the European Championship in the newspapers first."

The car slowly drove into the base gate, its tires making a soft rustling sound as they rolled over the gravel.

In the distance, several young trainees were already standing on the training field, looking in this direction.

As soon as Roy parked the car, three staff members in blue training uniforms surrounded him.

Giuly rolled down the car window and whistled, "Wow, the Champions League winners get different treatment."

As the two men carrying their training bags entered the hall, assistant coach Domenech jogged up to greet them.

He clutched a stack of training schedules in his hand, a tactical pen still tucked into his collar: "We've been waiting for you! Coach Santini is waiting in the conference room."

Santini, who will step down after the European Championship, is about to take over at Tottenham, something everyone knows.

At this moment, there was a cautious probing in his eyes. This assistant coach desperately needed the support of a star player to secure the head coaching position.

Domenech opened his arms and gave Roy and Giuly an exaggerated hug, deliberately making loud kissing sounds as they pressed their cheeks together.

"Oh, God!"

He patted the two men on the back and shouted, "Your performance in the Champions League final has made all of France go crazy! Monaco's treble is not only a glory for the club, but also a glory for French football!"

As he spoke, he glanced around to make sure his voice reached every staff member.

Finally, he even gave Roy a squeeze on the shoulder. The words he had spoken during that breakfast phone call the day before yesterday were now hidden in this meaningful gesture.

"Coach, you're too kind. Monaco's achievements are inseparable from the nurturing of French football, just like the growth of us players. We will always remember your guidance and care."

"No matter what changes occur in the future, this friendship will never change."

Roy wore a polite smile, but calmly calculated in his mind.

He actually prefers Lyon's Le Guen or former Liverpool manager Houllier to take over the French team, but Domenech is indeed a popular choice right now.

He secretly decided to remain neutral, but he had to make Domenech feel that he was on his side.

“Coach,” he said sincerely, “your contributions to the French team are evident to all. Whoever ultimately takes over, I believe the Football Association will make the choice that is most beneficial to the team.”

This statement was so subtle that it offered no explicit support, yet Domenech felt it was implying something.

Domenech's face immediately broke into a bright smile, and a few lines of pride appeared at the corners of his eyes.

"Ha! I knew you were a smart one! Just wait and see, after the European Championship, the French team will usher in a brand new era!"

Roy's lips twitched slightly as he thought, "A new era? I bet the perfume in the locker room will be replaced with exorcism potion."

He glanced at Domenech's shiny forehead.

The ambition written on it is far more outrageous than any fantasy novel.

Shortly afterward, Roy met with the outgoing Santini in the conference room.

Santini simply patted him on the shoulder and said, "Play well in the European Championship."

The air seemed to freeze for a moment when he walked into the hall.

Six of the French players are from Monaco: Abidal, Evra, Rothen, Pedretti, Giuly, and Roy.

This team, which just won the Champions League, almost made up half of the national team.

Zidane was the first to greet him, his smile widening: "Congratulations, Roy."

He reached out and shook hands with Roy, his voice carrying the gentleness of a senior, "When I was your age, I hadn't even touched the Champions League trophy yet."

"If he can perform like he did in the Champions League in the European Championship, he'll win the Ballon d'Or this year."

Henry leaned against the wall with his arms crossed: "Hey, the Champions League winners are here."

His eyes held a complex expression, and his tone was ambiguous, whether it was teasing or bitter.

"Honestly, I have to thank you. Luckily, we Arsenal didn't lose to the runner-up."

Trezeguet walked over and patted Roy on the shoulder: "The Champions League title is finally here? We thought you were going to act like Zidane and throw your weight around."

Roy shook his head with a smile: "My legs were weak after the final match, it really wasn't on purpose."

“Deschamps is coming to Juventus next season,” Thuram interjected. “That guy is really lucky; he won the Champions League with you guys not long after becoming a coach.”

He turned to Trezeguet and winked, "Looks like it'll be Juventus' turn to win the Champions League next year."

Trezeguet chimed in, "Yeah, don't blame us for stealing your championship coach then."

Roy just smiled and didn't respond to the question.

Staying in Serie A is a victory in itself.

On the other side, Gallas and Makelele also came over.

Roy asked, "I heard that the Portuguese guy wanted to clean half the locker room as soon as he arrived?"

“Mourinho,” Makelele scoffed, “the Portuguese guy, he’s gotten incredibly arrogant after just leading Porto to a Champions League runner-up finish. I heard he hasn’t even arrived in London yet, and he’s already saying that apart from Terry and Lampard, no one at Chelsea is not for sale.”

Gallas sneered: "What's even more outrageous is that he wants to bring half a team from Porto. Deco, Carvalho, Ferreira, that's one thing, but even Costinha and Maniche are treated like treasures."

"I think he's treating the Premier League like the Portuguese league."

Makelele shook his head. "A Champions League runner-up coach, does he really think he's Shankly reincarnated?"

Roy raised an eyebrow but didn't reply.

He recalled what Deschamps had said before the match when analyzing Porto's video: "The most terrifying thing about that Portuguese player is that he can make second-rate players play at a first-rate level."

Roy knew Mourinho's abilities better than anyone: after all, he came from the future and had witnessed firsthand how this "Special One" would later sweep across European football.

Although he had just defeated Porto in the Champions League final, he knew that this victory had only interrupted the legendary path that Mourinho was supposed to embark on.

While others were still mocking the Portuguese man's arrogance, Roy watched Mourinho's departing figure and knew very well: this time, it was only his Porto team that won.

If this madman were given a stronger team, like Chelsea, Inter Milan, or Real Madrid in the future—he would definitely make a comeback and show the whole of European football his prowess.

The players gathered in twos and threes in the lobby, chatting idly.

Some people were leaning back on the sofa watching the TV broadcast, some were holding coffee and discussing transfer rumors, and others were gathered together playing cards and laughing.

The entire hall was filled with the sounds of laughter and conversation, creating a relaxed and casual atmosphere.

Occasionally, bursts of laughter would erupt, drawing sidelong glances from onlookers.

The time before training is a rare moment of relaxation.

At that moment, Santini blew the assembly whistle, and the players quickly lined up and stood in formation.

The coach cleared his throat: "Gentlemen, before we begin training, let's give a round of applause to the 2003-2004 Champions League winners."

Zidane was the first to raise his hand, and the applause was crisp and powerful.

Trezeguet and Thuram from the Juventus side clapped along, while Gallas and Makelele from Chelsea reluctantly echoed the sentiment.

But Arsenal's Henry, Vieira and Pires only made a token handshake, while Bayern's Lizarazu and Sagnol also looked listless.

After all, both teams were defeated by Monaco in the Champions League knockout stage.

Amidst the sparse applause, the Monaco six stood ramrod straight.

“Alright,” Santini clapped his hands, “now focus on the European Championship. Remember, once you put on this blue jersey (Les Bleus), you are no longer club players.”

"But knights who fought for France."

On June 6, the French team bus slowly drove into the Saint-Denis Stadium.

The players got off the bus one after another, carrying their sports bags and wearing headphones, and walked towards the locker room in twos and threes.

The stadium was already packed with fans, cheering loudly.

The noise level at the scene rose sharply when Roy got out of the car.

Fans chanted his name, held up jerseys and signs with his number on them, and flashbulbs went off constantly.

The iron fence outside the stadium creaked as countless hands reached out from the gaps, waving blue, white, and red scarves and markers.

As Roy stepped off the bus, a wave of noise surged towards him.

"Roy!" "Give us autographs!" "Bring the European Cup home!"

Vieira frowned and glanced at the screaming female fans, muttering under his breath, "We didn't see anything this exaggerated when we won the European Championship."

Henry snorted and nudged him with his elbow: "Stop being so sour. L'Équipe just published the data last week, and this guy is now the most desired football player for women in all of France to date."

Vieira rolled her eyes: "Just because of his face?"

“It’s all because of the Champions League trophy, and,” Henry pointed to a female fan in the distance who was crying with excitement, “this guy always throws his jersey into the stands after a game, then leaves shirtless, clapping and cheering. He’s a spitting image of a blonde babe from a different country, except one is blonde and the other is black.”

Vieira shook his head, picked up his bag, and strode into the players' tunnel.

The match between France and Ukraine has begun.

Due to his late return to the team, Roy was placed on the bench, and Santini opted to pair Manchester United striker Saha with Henry as a two-pronged attack.

The team's main striker, Trezeguet, collided with goalkeeper Landreau during training this morning, and both players will miss this match.

This match held special significance for Desailly, as it was his last game for the French national team on home soil.

Surprisingly, the veteran captain, who is about to retire after the European Championship, did not start, and the captain's armband was worn on Zidane's inner arm.

In defense, Santini made an unexpected adjustment: Thuram moved to center-back, forming a new center-back pairing with Abidal, who was selected for the national team for the second time.

Center-back Gallas will temporarily fill in at right-back. Ukraine's attack suffered a major blow as star player Shevchenko will miss the match to accompany his sister, who suffered a heart attack, back to Milan.

Without the AC Milan striker, the Ukrainian team struggled in attack.

The match coincided with the French Football Federation's centenary celebrations, and the Stade de France was filled with stars.

The first row of the stands was filled with French football legends.

In the center of the stadium, French football legends walked one by one toward the current national team players to shake hands and greet them.

Fontaine, Kepa, and Platini were the first to arrive, followed by Papin, Giresse, Tigana, and other stars from the 80s.

Deschamps, Blanc, Petit, Leboeuf, Karembeu, Cantona, Papin, and Dugarry walked slowly towards them.

Desailly was nowhere to be seen.

The soon-to-retire captain is currently preparing in the locker room.

A huge blue, white, and red carpet was laid out in the center of the venue, and staff were busy adjusting the position of the podium.

The big screen played a series of highlights from the French national team's 100-year history, from their third-place finish at the 1958 World Cup to their home victory in 1998. Each classic moment elicited cheers from fans of all ages.

The scene then shifts to the glorious moments of French clubs in European competitions.

When Marseille lifted the Champions League trophy in 1993, enthusiastic whistles erupted from the stands.

The next segment played was Monaco's Champions League campaign in 2004. Roy's powerful nutmeg shot against Porto goalkeeper Baía sent the stadium into a frenzy, with fans stomping their feet and the stands trembling slightly.

As soon as footage of Giuly's second goal was shown, the entire Saint-Denis Stadium erupted in deafening cheers.

The elderly wiped their eyes, while the young raised their arms high. At that moment, the glory of French football burned in everyone's heart.

Ukraine created a dangerous situation early on. Petrov received a through ball and broke into the penalty area, only to be tackled from behind by Gallas, who was tracking back.

The entire Saint-Denis Stadium held its breath for a moment.

The referee crossed his arms, indicating that there was no penalty.

The Ukrainian players raised their hands in protest, while the French defenders quickly spread out to organize a counterattack.

The first half was a stalemate due to Ukraine's tight defense.

In the 28th minute, Pires broke through on the right and crossed the ball. Saha headed the ball from the edge of the six-yard box, but it was blocked out of bounds by Ukrainian center-back Rusor.

In the ensuing corner kick, Vieira outjumped Sherayev to win the header, but it was too central and easily caught by the goalkeeper.

Ukraine launched a quick counter-attack in the 35th minute. Rotan broke through Gallas on the left and crossed the ball. Vorobé headed the ball towards goal before Thuram could reach it, but Barthez made a diving save to tip the ball over the crossbar.

This attack gave the French team a real scare.

In the 41st minute, Zidane and Henry executed a brilliant one-two pass on the edge of the penalty area, but Henry's shot was blocked by a diving save from Starostiak.

In stoppage time, Makelele intercepted the ball and played a through ball to Saha, who broke into the right side of the penalty area and fired a shot from a tight angle, but the ball grazed the far post and went out of play.

At halftime, the score was 0-0.

Despite having 65% possession, France struggled to find a way to break through Ukraine's solid defense.

Santini kept gesturing on the sidelines, clearly dissatisfied with the attacking efficiency.

Roy sat on the bench, chatting casually with Giuly.

Wiltord remained silent, his eyes fixed on the pitch.

The atmosphere between the two was clearly tense. Last year, they even got into a fight in the locker room over who should wear the number 11 jersey, but now things are completely different.

Roy scored a record-breaking 45 goals in the league this season, along with 17 goals in the Champions League, winning both the league's Golden Boot and the Champions League top scorer award, leading his club to a treble.

Wiltord could only sit on the bench.

The stands at the Saint-Denis Stadium were filled with Roy's jerseys and posters.

Wiltord knew better than anyone that if another conflict broke out now, the boos from the 40,000 fans in the stadium would only be directed at him.

"It doesn't matter. Everything will change when I go on the field and start scoring."

"Fans are the most forgetful people; they'll love whoever makes them happy!"

"When you score the first goal, they'll shut up; the second, they'll say, 'This kid's not bad,' and then hesitate whether to applaud; if you score the third, the die-hard fans will start tearing down the banners supporting Wiltord."

"When my total goals surpass Wiltord's, or any other old guy with more goals than him, they'll forget the word 'legend' and kneel down shouting: 'You're the fucking awesome one! The others aren't even worthy of giving you blowjobs!'"

"Only those who are dead or about to die are called legends. When people reminisce about legends, it is often because there are no younger, tougher players on the field."

The words Roy said on the day of his national team debut more than a year ago have now become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Before the start of the second half, the fourth official raised the substitution board, and Santini brought on Desailly, Sagnol, Roy, and Giuly in one go.
The entire stadium erupted in cheers, which swept through every corner of the stands like a tsunami.

As Roy jogged toward the center circle, the broadcast cameras captured a detail: the caddies behind the advertising boards on the sidelines were all crowded at the tunnel entrance, vying to reach out and touch his hand.

The French television commentator had to raise his voice: "Listen to this cheer! Since Zidane, no player's entrance has generated such a terrifying roar!"

In the 47th minute of the match, Vieira intercepted the ball in midfield and quickly advanced forward, sending a through ball to Roy who had dropped back to receive it.

The two Ukrainian defensive midfielders immediately closed in, but Roy seemed to be handling it with ease.

He first gently tapped the ball with his heel, and the ball obediently passed between Tymoshchuk's legs, completing the turn at the same time.

Then, two large, consecutive pedaling movements caused Shelayev to lose his balance and stagger back two steps.

The most exciting part was that Roy didn't accelerate and break through as usual, but instead suddenly stopped the ball and calmly passed it to Sagnol, who was making a run down the right wing, before the third defender could close in.

The entire movement was fluid and graceful, even Henry on the sidelines couldn't help but shake his head in admiration, and Zidane even showed a rare expression of surprise.

When did this young man, who used to rely solely on speed to overpower others, learn such delicate dribbling skills?
Roy's dribbling suddenly resembled Ronaldinho's style; although still somewhat raw, he was noticeably more confident than before.

Once he used this newly learned technique to get past the defender, combined with his already amazing speed, he was simply unstoppable.

In the 48th minute, Zidane evaded Sherayev in midfield and delivered a pinpoint through ball, which Roy launched like an arrow.

He first used the outside of his foot to dribble past Yezelski, then used Cruyff's turn to get past the chasing Russol, and finally chipped the ball over the goalkeeper and into the net before Starostiak could make a sliding tackle.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen! Look at Roy's goal, it's as graceful as a ballet performance!"

"The entire Stade de France trembled the moment the ball rolled into the net! This young man delivered the most devastating blow in the most effortless way!"

"What a beautiful sense of rhythm! It's like a pianist playing a Chopin nocturne, every movement is just right, every choice is exquisite!"

"This is the art of football! Roy, with his cat-like reflexes and ice-cold mind, showed us what it means to 'make the most of things'!"

"Look at this goal replay, it's worthy of being in the Louvre! This isn't just a simple goal, it's a poem written with football!"

"The future of French football rests on the feet of this young man! He makes defenders look like they're doing a slow-motion dance!"

The entire Saint-Denis stadium erupted in cheers, with French fans in the stands waving their tricolor flags wildly.

Ukraine was forced to push forward in attack, which led to a widening of defensive vulnerabilities.

In the 63rd minute, Giuly broke through on the right wing and passed the ball back in a triangular pattern. Roy faked a shot at the edge of the penalty area and then cut inside, fooling Fedorov before firing a low shot into the far corner.

Five minutes later, Vieira intercepted Rotan's pass in midfield and quickly passed the ball to Giuly on the right wing.

Giuly dribbled forward two steps and then passed the ball back to the onrushing Sagnol, who made a 45-degree diagonal pass into the penalty area without stopping the ball.

Roy suddenly started from the right flank and skillfully received the ball with his back to goal amidst the double-team of Fedorov and Rusol.

With a slight flick of his left foot, he turned and, before Starostiak could cover, flicked the ball sideways with the inside of his foot.

The ball dribbled precisely through three defenders and rolled to Henry's feet on the left side of the penalty area.

Henry easily slotted the ball into the far corner; the Ukrainian goalkeeper got a hand to it but couldn't prevent it from going in.

The entire play was fluid and seamless, with only four passes required from intercepting the ball to scoring.

Roy jogged toward Henry, and the two embraced tightly in the corner flag area.

Henry laughed and ruffled Roy's hair: "That assist was brilliant, it was so precise, it was like it was measured with a ruler!"

Roy shook his head and patted Henry on the back: "No one else could have caught that ball. The way you controlled it, the defenders were all dumbfounded."

"Come on, that turn you just made was amazing, I was ready to applaud you."

The two exchanged a smile, lightly patted each other's chests, and ran back to the center circle.

A reporter from L'Équipe on the sidelines quickly jotted down in his notebook: "The atmosphere in the French team's locker room is more united than ever before – just look at the perfect chemistry between the strike partnership of Henry and Roy. It's rare in European football for two top strikers to be able to support each other so selflessly, rather than fight for the right to shoot."

He looked up at the two men high-fiving in celebration and added, "In today's football era, with its complex locker room politics, such a pure partnership might just be the secret weapon for the French team in their quest for the championship."

In the 75th minute, Desailly headed in a corner kick to finish his farewell match for the national team perfectly.

Just before the final whistle, Zidane used his signature Marseille turn to dribble past Gusev before chipping a shot from the edge of the penalty area into the top corner.

France ultimately won 5-0, and the entire stadium sang "La Marseillaise" and lingered for a long time.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Let us remember this night forever! 5-0! A resounding victory! French football has finally shaken off the shadow of the 2002 Korea-Japan World Cup!"

"Look! This invincible team! Zidane continues to compose a symphony of football with his poetic footsteps, Henry maintains his lightning-fast lethality, and tonight, we witnessed the perfect unsheathing of 'France's sharpest sword'—Roy! Two goals and one assist, this sword proclaims in the most magnificent way: the golden age of French football continues!"

"The horn of Euro 2004 in Portugal has sounded! With such a sharp and invincible weapon, such an unbreakable lineup, and such unstoppable fighting spirit, all of Europe will bow down at the feet of the Gallic Rooster!"

"From the banks of the Seine to the Tagus, from the Stade de France to the Estádio da Luz, this invincible team, which boasts the artistic master Zinedine Zidane, the lightning-fast killer Thierry Henry, and 'France's sharpest sword' Roy, will surely conquer all of Europe with the most dazzling attacking football!"

"Let us shout! This is not the end, but the beginning of a great journey! In 2004, we will make the Henri Delaunay Trophy shine again under the Arc de Triomphe! Long live France! Long live Marseillaise! Let Europe tremble under the cold light of the 'Sword of France'!"

On the evening of June 6, the French team's chartered plane flew smoothly through the night sky.

At the rear of the cabin, four players sat around a folding table, engaged in a fierce French poker match.

Zidane squinted, calculating the cards on the table.

Trezeguet, who was on the other side, had lost five games in a row and was frowning as he counted his chips.

“One more round,” he muttered, pushing the chips to the center of the table.

Thuram chuckled as he shuffled the cards, his broad hands deftly cutting through the deck: "Your luck tonight is worse than it was during the 02 World Cup."

Roy leaned against the window, holding three cards in his hand, glancing occasionally at the dark clouds outside the porthole.

As the flight attendant pushed the food cart past, he casually asked for a glass of orange juice.

Zidane tapped the edge of the cards lightly with his fingertips, his eyes still fixed on the cards, but his tone was somewhat teasing: "Ever since your 'self-coronation' celebration at the Bernabéu, the Madrid newspapers have been running around about you a lot."

He slowly played a card, "Seriously, don't you want to come to Real Madrid?"

"Even if you felt wronged by the transfer fee back then, isn't it the best 'revenge' for Real Madrid to spend a fortune to bring you back now?"

Roy gently shook the cards in his hand, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I'm not angry. In fact, I had a very pleasant conversation with President Perez at the last dinner. Remember when you won the FIFA World Player of the Year award? He was standing right next to me; you saw it with your own eyes."

"Florentino has been constantly talking about making up for the mistakes he made back then."

Zidane looked up, his deep gaze meeting Roy's directly. "Or do you not want to play on my team?"

"Let's talk about that after the European Championship. Right now, I just want to focus on what's in front of me."

Roy then turned the conversation to the Netherlands: "The Netherlands is quite interesting. They're going to play their last warm-up match against Ireland in Amsterdam. Advocaat needs to use this match to finalize his starting lineup for the first match against Bulgaria. The biggest headache right now is who to use for the attacking midfield position, and who will partner with Van Nistelrooy."

He took a sip of orange juice and continued, "It's funny, they were doing so well in the qualifiers, everyone thought there wouldn't be any infighting this time. But then... Van der Meyde and Seedorf almost came to blows at training the other day, and Van der Vaart publicly complained about his playing time. If you ask me, I'm afraid the Dutch will never get rid of this old habit."

Trezeguet, with a toothpick in his mouth, said, "Seedorf is throwing a tantrum again, insisting that he only plays attacking midfield. Advocaat clearly wants Van der Vaart to start, and is even planning to keep Seedorf on the right wing."

Thuram chimed in: "You can tell by watching the warm-up games. Sneijder started as the right winger in two consecutive matches. That's just how the Dutch are; they always have to stir things up before a major tournament. Seedorf was playing brilliantly in Milan, but he puts on airs with the national team."

“Van der Vaart is definitely a good kid,” Trezeguet said, switching the toothpick to the other side. “But if you ask me, Advocaat is pretty stubborn for not using a player like Seedorf.”

Makelele snorted from the side: "The Dutch always seem to have some infighting when it comes to major tournaments."

Roy counted on his fingers, recounting the story with great familiarity: "The history of infighting in the Dutch team is quite fascinating. In the 1978 World Cup, Cruyff and Van Hanegem refused to participate—and now Van Hanegem is sitting on the Dutch team's coaching bench."

He raised his second finger: "The 1990 World Cup in Italy was even more outrageous; the entire team fired the head coach. In 1994, Gullit criticized Advocaat's tactics as garbage and then retired early. In 1996, Davies was sent home for publicly criticizing Hiddink."

"If you ask me," Zidane said with a smile and a shake of his head, "the Dutch have a tradition of infighting that is even longer than their history of total football. Now Seedorf is doing the same thing again, and I think they're going to repeat the same mistake in this European Championship."

Roy shrugged: "That's good news for us."

He glanced at his watch. "We'll land in an hour. Want to play another round?"

While dealing the cards, Makelele said, "England is in chaos too. Eriksson suddenly changed the diamond midfield to a flat 4-4-2 in the preseason, which clearly shows he hadn't figured out how to use Gerrard and Lampard. In the game against Japan, Lampard, playing as a defensive midfielder, kept pushing forward, and Shunsuke Nakamura and Shinji Ono tore through England's midfield."

"Scholes also played awkwardly at the top of the diamond, and now Eriksson wants to move him to the left wing so that Gerrard and Lampard can partner in the middle. But that would mean Butt would have to sit on the bench."

He threw out a card, "and the funniest thing was when reporters asked him about it, Eriksson said, 'It would be best if they thought we weren't ready.'"

"To be honest, England's midfield pairing is more problematic than the Netherlands'. Gerrard and Lampard both demand possession, and Scholes is a waste when he plays on the wing. With Eriksen constantly switching between these positions, they're likely to struggle in the group stage."

Roy slammed his cards on the table and smiled: "England can't even figure out how to arrange their midfield, and the Netherlands is a complete mess. It's rare to see a team as united and tactically clear as ours these days."

"As for Bulgaria? Honestly, who cares about them? This so-called 'group of death' isn't that serious to me."

Roy flicked his finger, and the Ace of Spades spun and landed in the center of the table.

“Rebelote.”

He chuckled as he collected all the scoring cards, then flicked his left pinky to reveal his trump card and deliver the decisive blow.

('Rebelote' is a scoring term in French poker Belote, declared when a player plays the King and Queen of the same suit consecutively, and is worth 20 points.)
As night fell, the French team's plane slowly landed at Porto Airport, the runway lights casting flowing streaks of light on the windows.

Zidane put away his playing cards, and Roy gazed at the unfamiliar city skyline outside the window, saying softly, "This is it."

As the cabin announcement played a Portuguese welcome message, Coach Santini turned around at the cabin door and said, "Gentlemen, I hope that in a month, another plane will carry us and the Henri Delaunay Cup back to Paris."

The wind blowing in from the tarmac dispersed the lingering smoke of the card game.

(End of this chapter)