When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 173 When Sunflowers Meet Iris
The noise in the locker room gradually subsided, and it was already late at night.

The players walked toward the team bus in twos and threes, their backpacks stuffed with wet jerseys.

Barthez was the last to climb the steps, and behind him came the hoarse shouts of the fans: "Fabian! You're the best goalkeeper!"

He gave a thumbs-up in the direction the sound came from.

The bus doors slammed shut, and the bus slowly started moving, rolling over speed bumps towards the lights of Lisbon.

Outside the window, fans who refused to leave chased after the car until its taillights disappeared around the corner.

Only the electronic scoreboard on the outer wall of the stadium still showed a score of 3-1.

The French team is staying at the Penaronga Resort Hotel in the Sintra Mountains, about 25 kilometers outside of Lisbon.

The steam from the shower condensed into thin streams on the glass, and the green light on the CD player appeared and disappeared in the mist.

The guitar intro to The Beatles' "Yesterday" came from the speaker, a few notes muffled by the sound of flowing water.

The water from the showerhead cascaded down Roy's tall, 184-centimeter frame.

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, his wet black hair plastered to his forehead, water droplets dripping from his angular jawline onto his undulating chest muscles.

As his slender fingers brushed across her shoulder, her taut biceps glistened in the steam.

"Now it seems as though they're here to stay."

He tilted his head back, letting the hot water wash over his tired face.

Through the hazy mist, a faint smile could be seen on his lips, and his dark eyes gleamed with the relief of victory.

Roy dried his hair with a towel and casually tied the bath towel around his waist.

With water droplets still clinging to his collarbone, he picked up his phone from the bedside table and dialed that familiar number.

"Mom, we won the game, 3-1."

He leaned against the window, fiddling with the edge of a bath towel. "You're not hurt, don't worry."

Chen Lan's laughter came from the other end of the phone, and the corners of his mouth turned up as well, "Are Luo Wen and Luo Mi asleep yet?"

Outside the window, the outline of the Sintra Mountains was reduced to a blurry shadow in the night.

He paused, then softened his voice: "...I love you all."

The next morning, as Roy was slicing the fried sausages on his plate, he glanced up and saw the restaurant's wall-mounted TV playing the morning news.

A Portuguese television anchorwoman reported: "Lisbon police expelled another England fan last night."

The camera cuts to surveillance footage, showing a blond man swinging a bottle at a group of fans wearing French team jerseys.

"Alan Walker, 29, a Stoke City fan from League One, was previously barred from leaving the UK due to football violence, but this ban expired just before the 2004 European Championship, allowing Walker to travel freely to Portugal."

Roy's fork made a soft scratching sound on the porcelain plate, and Vieira at the next table also put down her coffee cup.

The camera shifts to the courtroom, where the judge is delivering the verdict: "12 months imprisonment, suspended, and a fine of 2000 euros."

The scrolling subtitles indicated that British colleagues had called Portuguese police, and that some of the English football hooligans who were banned from leaving the country had secretly infiltrated Portugal.

Police are making every effort to apprehend this group of football hooligans.

As the waiter came to refill the orange juice, the television was broadcasting an interview with a senior British police official stationed in Portugal: "Of the fans who received the ban, 97% have already surrendered their passports to the police. But there are still about 150 people who have not surrendered them."

UEFA has stressed that if the unrest continues, England could face expulsion from the national team.

Roy swallowed the last bite of bread and looked up to see Henry walking over with a coffee cup.

"What are you mumbling about?"

Henry frowned as he looked at the television.

"Regarding the hooliganism in British football, it's said that over a hundred more people may have infiltrated the team, and UEFA has warned that England may be disqualified."

"Ha! After that game at White Hart Lane last year, four drunk Tottenham fans blocked my way in the parking lot, one of them even had a folding chair in his hand."

He mimicked the other man's unsteady gait, deliberately raising his voice: "Frenchman! Go back to Paris!"

"I said, gentlemen, you've mistaken me for someone else. I'm from Arsenal."

"The idiot was genuinely stunned and turned to his companion, asking, 'What did he say?'"

Laughter erupted in the restaurant, and even Gallas at the next table choked on his orange juice.

Roy couldn't help but laugh out loud. He knew Henry too well; eight out of ten sentences the guy uttered were just bragging.

For the past few months, Roy's daily life has revolved almost entirely around training and recovery.

Mornings usually begin with a hearty breakfast.

Whole wheat bread, fried eggs, fruit, and of course, black coffee.

The team doctor will come and check his physical condition, especially the degree of muscle fatigue.

The intense competition in the first match against England left his thighs a bit tight, so he spends 20 minutes in the physiotherapy room stretching and ice packing before training every day.

The morning training focused on tactical drills.

On the training field, the coaching staff focused on analyzing the threat posed by the Dutch team.

Van Nistelrooy's goal-scoring instinct, Davies' interceptions, and Van der Vaart's long-range shots.

Roy practiced passing and cutting combinations with his Monaco teammates Giuly, Evra, Abidal, Pedretti, and Rothen.

During training breaks, Roy would intentionally or unintentionally recommend the characteristics of his former teammates to the coach.

Evra would often come over and ask, "Roy, which club are you going to next season?"

He himself is also considering a transfer, but he would prefer to go to the same team as Roy, feeling that he can win a championship by following this senior player.

The time after lunch is relatively free.

Sometimes he would play cards with his old Monaco teammates, such as Giuly and Evra, in the hotel coffee shop, and the loser would have to do 20 push-ups.

Rothen always liked to tell off-color jokes between card games, which almost made Pedretti, who was drinking water, spit it out.

As Giuly shuffled the cards, he shook his head and said, "You're like this in the club's locker room."

Roy laughed and slammed his cards on the table: "Focus on playing cards. If you tell another dirty joke, I'll make you do double the push-ups."

Occasionally, he would call his mother, who lived in Monaco, to listen to her nag about the weather in Monte Carlo.

More often, he would talk on the phone with Leticia, who had come to Portugal to watch the game.

Although the team has strict rules against meeting, she would call Roy every day to tell him how much she missed him.

Her voice came through the receiver, tinged with displeasure, "...I was sitting in the East Stand wearing your number 11 jersey. Did you know? The news said that Eriksson lifted the England team's 'sex ban' the night of the loss, allowing the players to see their girlfriends."

Roy smiled. "That's because they're the losers, darling. Our French team is still fighting for the championship."

“But that’s so inhumane,” Leticia complained. “They won’t even let us meet before the match.”

"Just bear with it a little longer," Roy comforted softly. "When we lift the trophy, you can celebrate however you want."

Afternoons are usually for recovery training, such as swimming or jogging.

In June, Lisbon is bathed in scorching sun, making swimming pools the most popular spot.

In the afternoon, Zidane and Roy swam together at the pool.

Zidane lay by the pool, squinting as he watched Roy swim a few laps.

"If I win this European Championship, my national team career will be complete."

Zidane suddenly said, water droplets sliding down his bald head.

He had previously announced in the media that he would retire from the national team after the 2004 European Championship.

Roy stopped paddling and asked with a smile, "No other wishes?"

Zidane wiped his face: "I want to win another Champions League title."

His gaze swept across the pool, as if he saw something far away.

"I want to take it too."

Roy spoke softly, and the two exchanged a smile.

During the evening tactical meeting, the coaching staff repeatedly played video footage of the Dutch team's matches.

Desailly sat in the corner, watching Van Nistelrooy's goal highlights on the screen with a gloomy expression.

This was his last major international tournament, but Santini showed no intention of letting him play.

This veteran player has become nothing more than a mascot in the locker room.

The whole of Portugal is like a boiling cauldron.

The training bases of the sixteen national teams are scattered in various cities, and players can be seen running on the grass from early morning to late at night.

Hotels, restaurants, and bars were packed with fans wearing all sorts of jerseys, arguing over whose striker was better and whose coach should be sacked.

The media center is always lit up, and reporters are busy typing and editing, afraid of missing any news.

Sponsor billboards covered the perimeter of every stadium, and staff were busy checking whether the logos were prominently displayed. Several scouts in suits always sat in the stands, their notebooks filled with numbers and codes.

On the streets and alleys, vendors sell national flags, scarves, and pirated jerseys.

Some savvy individuals have started a "fan guide" business, claiming they can find people the cheapest beer.

Police patrolled back and forth in the crowd, keeping an eye on drunkards causing trouble and habitual offenders who specialize in stealing tourists' wallets.

Hotel owners tripled room rates, yet they were still fully booked every day.

The taxi driver learned a few phrases in various languages ​​about how to get to the stadium.

The map of Portugal seems to have been redrawn by football.

The cafe's waiters have developed a keen eye for detail.

Upon seeing Dutch fans wearing orange jerseys, they immediately served double the amount of fries.

When encountering an English guest dressed in white, two extra boxes of ketchup are automatically placed on the side of their plate.

If a fan of the Italian national team walks in, they will be served a small dish of olive oil without being asked.

Only the French team's blue jerseys posed a challenge. The waiters had to carefully examine the styles.

The dark blue with red stripes represents Italy, while the solid dark blue represents France. Later, a clever person came up with a solution: anyone ordering coffee with three sugar cubes is probably French.

If you only add one sugar but demand double the concentration, you're definitely an Italian.

This discovery quickly spread throughout Lisbon's small restaurants, becoming an unspoken industry secret among the waiters.

The whole country revolves around the rhythm of football, and everyone is waiting for the whistle to blow in the next match.

First draw in Euro qualifiers! Italy and Denmark play to a 0-0 draw, ending a 10-match draw drought between the two sides.

subtitle:
Sorensen made a brilliant save to keep the team in the game, while Tomasson received a controversial yellow card, as the Nordic defense managed to maintain their unbeaten record.

"Nordic Storm Sweeps the European Championship! Sweden 5-0 Latvia, Ibrahimovic's Extraordinary Goal Begins a Legendary Saga"

subtitle:
Larsson scored twice, and the Nordic Vikings unleashed a barrage of 21 shots, delivering a crushing blow to the European Championship newcomers.

Czech Republic stages comeback to defeat Croatia 2-1 in their opening match.

subtitle:
Baroš and Koller shone brightly, but the Croatian national team conceded a goal in stoppage time and suffered a heartbreaking defeat.

Greece creates a 'myth'! A stunning 2-1 upset defeats the German machine.

subtitle:
Charisteas' header sealed the victory, dealing a heavy blow to Völler's army.

"Spain secures a double victory! 2-0 win over Switzerland, Torres' goal seals the win."

subtitle:
Valerón's brilliant assist led to Aragonés' tactical victory, and the Swiss goalkeeper's numerous brilliant saves were insufficient to prevent the outcome.

The Golden Generation Awakens! Portugal Defeats 10-Man Russia 2-0; Ronaldo's Substitute Assist Creates the Key to Victory

subtitle:
Maniche opened the scoring with a volley, the Russian goalkeeper's red card contributed to the error, Genfigo hit the post, and Costa scored as a substitute.

The day before the game.

On Avenida da Liberdade in Lisbon, Dúchen-Klós is carrying several shopping bags as he walks out of the Louis Vuitton store.

The sunlight made her blonde hair shine, and an orange scarf was casually draped over her shoulders.

That's the color of the Dutch national team's support.

"Ms. Klose!"

A man carrying a tape recorder suddenly jogged across the street, wearing a Telegraph reporter's badge around his neck.

"Could I have two minutes of your time? It's about tomorrow's Netherlands vs. France match."

She stopped in her tracks, her eyes narrowing slightly behind her sunglasses.

The reporter quickly added, "I heard you came here specifically to watch the game?"

"I'm just here on vacation."

She adjusted her sunglasses, but did not deny it.

Will you go to the game in person?

The reporter pressed further: "Could you share your thoughts on tomorrow's match? As a Dutchman, how do you feel about facing a French team with Roy, a core player of a three-time Champions League winner?"

Du Chen's lips twitched slightly.

She recalled that more than two weeks ago in her apartment in Amsterdam, the television was showing Roy lifting the Champions League trophy.

“The French team is indeed very strong,” she said, gently fiddling with her scarf, “but the ball is round.”

So you support the Netherlands team?

The reporter pressed for more questions, and the recording pen moved closer.

"Of course I support the Netherlands, but..."

He was interrupted by the reporter's next question before he could finish speaking.

"If Roy scores, will you applaud him?"

Du Chen switched the shopping bag to his other hand and suddenly smiled: "Why not? Excellent football deserves applause."

The corners of her eyes behind the mirror curved slightly, but her taut jawline betrayed the deliberate composure she maintained.

Her lips, painted with red lipstick, were turned up at just the right angle.

The following day, The Telegraph’s entertainment section published a close-up of her smiling face with the headline: “Football is round: Klose’s orange faith.”

In the photo, the sunflower earrings on her earlobes and the flowing orange scarf complement each other, with the caption reading: "As she said—some loyalty is more eternal than love."

As the morning sun slanted into the hotel lobby, Deschamps pushed open the glass door of the hotel where the French national team was staying.

He was wearing a dark blue casual short-sleeved shirt, looking spirited, with a healthy tan from the Mediterranean sun on his arms, making him look much younger than his actual age.

"Marcel!"

Deschamps spotted Desailly sitting on the sofa in the lobby at a glance, and strode over with his arms outstretched.

Desailly stood up, and the two gave each other a big bear hug, patting each other's backs like two brothers who had been separated for a long time.

At that moment, Makelele stepped out of the elevator.

Didier.

He smiled and extended his hand to Deschamps.

Deschamps took his hand and shook it gently: "Ready for tonight's game?"

Makelele shrugged: "Just waiting to take down the Dutch tonight."

The two exchanged a smile, their tacit understanding from years of fighting side by side was self-evident.

Zidane was sitting on the lobby sofa reading a newspaper, looking up with his signature smile.

Deschamps walked over, and the two bumped fists.

Didier

Zidane smiled slightly, "Even if I hide in the national team, I can't escape you."

Deschamps chuckled and shook his head: "You old codger, you still love to joke around."

The elevator doors opened again, and Roy stepped out.

Upon seeing Deschamps, his eyes lit up: "Coach!"

Deschamps opened his arms and gave him a firm hug.

"How's the status?"

Deschamps patted Roy on the back and asked.

"It could not be better."

Roy answered with a smile.

Deschamps lowered his voice and whispered in his ear, "Win this European Championship, and the Ballon d'Or is yours."

After saying that, he blinked.

Santini walked out of the conference room, and Deschamps immediately went to greet him.

The two chatted in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, Deschamps making a cutting gesture with his right hand: "Roy's diagonal breakthrough."

At the same time, he made a passing motion with his left hand. "At this time, the full-back needs to start moving in advance."

When the waiter brought the coffee, Deschamps naturally said "thank you" as he took it, as if he had never left the French team.

The laughter and chatter in the lobby gradually returned, as if it were just an ordinary morning.

(I'm not feeling well today, I'll take a break.)
(End of this chapter)