When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 186 Summer at 19
On the morning of July 5, 2004, 11-year-old Paul Pogba rubbed his sleepy eyes and got out of bed.

He was so excited about France's victory last night that he tossed and turned in bed until the early hours of the morning before finally falling asleep, and his head is still spinning.

The sound of a television came from the living room. His twin brothers, Florentin and Matthias, were already sitting in front of the sofa, intently watching the replay of last night's European Championship final.

The commentator's excited voice came from the television: "Desailly has lifted the Henri Delaunay Trophy!"

The night sky above Lisbon's Estádio da Luz was suddenly illuminated by fireworks, and the silver Henri Delaunay Trophy refracted a dazzling light under the intense illumination.

When Desailly lifted the Henri Delaunay Trophy with both hands, the roar of the crowd in the stands created a tremendous sound.

Roy stood on the left, his right hand resting on the trophy base.

Zidane reached out and supported the cup from his right side.

The moment the three lifted the ball together, tens of thousands of blue and white ribbons suddenly shot out from the stadium roof, covering the entire podium like a blizzard.

The flashes of dozens of cameras on the sidelines lit up simultaneously, making the silver-white trophy dazzlingly bright.

Cold flames shot straight up from the four corners of the stadium, illuminating the entire turf as if it were daytime.

The cheers from the fans in the stands were deafening, and countless blue and white flags billowed in the stands.

All the French players crowded onto the podium, pushing and shoving each other as they jostled to touch the trophy.

Vieira grabbed Desailly's shoulder from behind, while Giuly jumped onto Roy's back.

The young players jumped up and down excitedly, making the podium tremble slightly.

Although the veterans didn't make as many big moves, their smiles were just as bright.

Desailly finally let go of the trophy, allowing his teammates to pass it around.

Roy was squeezed into the crowd, but he maintained his signature faint smile throughout.

Zidane handed the trophy to Roy.

He took it with both hands, the heavy Delaunay Cup gleaming silver in his hands.

He turned to face the stands and slowly raised the trophy.

The French fans in the stands immediately erupted in a deafening chant: "Roy! Roy!"

UEFA officials stood up and applauded.

Platini strode over to Roy and whispered a few words in his ear.

All the French players stopped celebrating and turned their attention to the 19-year-old.

The entire stadium seemed to freeze at that moment, with only Roy holding the trophy high and the flashes of cameras going off in the stands.

He won the European Championship Golden Boot and broke Platini's 20-year record with 10 goals, becoming the youngest top scorer in the tournament's history.

He also won the European Championship Best Player award.

As for the best young player? It was awarded to 18-year-old Rooney.

Pogba's second brother, Bogba's seventh brother Matthias, sat up straight on the sofa, staring intently at the television screen: "My God, Roy's annual income could probably buy our entire community."

Years later, it was this calculating Mattias who, while his brother Paulo and Mbappe were embroiled in a bitter feud, revealed the absurd story of the "wizard curse" to the media.

Florentine Borg, counting on his fingers, said seriously, "If I were him, I'd first get a gold-plated custom Hummer, a few sets of high-end jewelry, and a few expensive watches."

"The remaining money should be enough to buy a luxury house in District 16."

"Don't be so naive. A star like Roy must be shopping on Avenue Montaigne every day and going to the most exclusive private clubs at night."

He adjusted his posture and continued, "Those international supermodels must be proud to know him."

The two quieted down and gazed reverently at Roy's figure on the television, their eyes sparkling with longing.

Just then, Paul walked into the living room rubbing his eyes. Hearing his brothers' conversation, he immediately shouted, "I want to be a star like Roy when I grow up!"

Matias and Florentin turned around at the same time, looking their younger teammate up and down, who was wearing a jersey two sizes too big and had messy hair.

The two suddenly burst into laughter.

"Ha! You? You need your mom to help you even tie your shoelaces!"

As the three boys were wrestling on the sofa, a rousing march suddenly came from the television.

The camera then switched to Charles de Gaulle Airport.

The Air France plane with its tail painted in blue, white and red was slowly taxiing onto the tarmac.

"Look!"

Paul suddenly broke free from his brothers' restraints, his little face almost pressed against the TV screen.

Matthias and Florentin also fell silent instantly, their three pairs of eyes fixed on the slowly opening hatch in the scene.

Charles de Gaulle Airport was already bustling with activity in the early morning.

Before 11 a.m., the arrival hall was already packed with fans waving blue and white flags, and even the second-floor railings were crowded with people.

Ground staff had to form a human wall by holding hands, effectively blocking out a path in the VIP passage.

"I'm coming!"

Suddenly someone pointed out the window and shouted.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, an A340 with a huge tricolor flag painted on its tail could be seen slowly taxiing towards the tarmac. The photographers who had been waiting for a long time immediately stirred, and dozens of cameras were pointed at the cabin door.

The moment the boarding stairs approached the plane, the entire terminal erupted in a deafening roar of "La Marseillaise".

The captain was the first to appear, waving a miniature French flag out the window, which made the children on the second floor scream.

Then the hatch opened completely.

French head coach Santini appeared at the entrance holding the Henri Delaunay Trophy, the sunlight reflecting off the silver cup with dazzling brilliance.

Shouts of "Zizou!" "Roy!" "Henry!" echoed throughout the room.

Roy took off his sunglasses and hung them on his collar, following closely behind Zidane as the second person to descend the gangway.

His short black hair was slightly disheveled by the wind, and the white short-sleeved shirt worn by the French team made his figure appear exceptionally upright.

He put one hand in his pocket and casually waved the other, instantly causing a deafening roar to erupt in the airport.

The wind swept across the tarmac, making his clothes flutter, and he looked like a silhouette that had just stepped out of a poster.

Thousands of people crowded into every window of the terminal, waving national flags that rose and fell like waves.

Flashes lit up the room, and the clicking of camera shutters filled the air.

Reporters crowded in front of the cordon, stretching out their arms and holding microphones, their shouts mixed together, making it impossible to hear what they were saying.

He turned to look at his teammates behind him; everyone had tired but happy smiles on their faces.

At this moment, all the hard work was worth it.

Roy turned around and bowed deeply to the cheering crowd.

Sports Minister Jean-François Lamour strode across the tarmac.

He opened his arms and gave Santini, the first person to disembark, a tight hug, and then shook hands with each of the players.

Lamour gripped Roy's shoulders tightly with both hands, leaned close to Roy's ear, and spoke in a low voice, but with barely concealed excitement:
"My child, the president specifically asked me to tell you that France is proud of you!"

Under the midday sun at Charles de Gaulle Airport, the French team's open-top bus slowly drove off the tarmac.

Roy leaned against the railing, the Delaunay Cup gleaming silver in his hand.

On the A1 highway, fans were already chasing after the cars, some with half their bodies sticking out of the sunroof, waving huge tricolor flags, and horns blaring.

As soon as the bus turned into the Arc de Triomphe on the Champs-Élysées, a wave of cheers surged forth. The entire avenue was packed with fans, who climbed lampposts, bus stop roofs, and even rode on their companions' shoulders.

Three thousand police officers were on high alert for security, while Republican Guard cavalry led the way, their hoofbeats drowning out the cheers.

Hundreds of thousands of people lined both sides of the street, waving blue, white, and red flags and chanting at the top of their lungs, "Merci les Bleus!" (Thank you, Blues!)

The sound waves came one after another, echoing from one end of the Champs-Élysées to the other, making the leaves of the plane trees tremble.

Some climbed up the lampposts, some rode on their companions' shoulders, and everyone looked up with their eyes shining.

The children were held high above their heads, their little hands clutching crumpled national flags, shouting along with the adults.

These three simple words became the most touching confession in the entire city at that moment.

The outdoor cafe was packed with people.

Someone threw blue and white ribbons from their balcony, and they fluttered in the wind.

The moment Roy raised the Henri Delaunay Cup with both hands, a deafening roar suddenly erupted along the Champs-Élysées.

The silver trophy shone brightly in the midday sun, illuminating the flushed faces on the field.

The fans in the front row pushed forward wildly, and the police line was knocked crooked. The police officers had to hold hands to barely maintain their formation.

The shouts of "Roy! Roy!" came from the end of the street and spread rapidly like wildfire.

As the bus passed Place de la Concorde, it stopped in front of the fountain, and the players raised the trophy, causing the square to erupt in cheers.

The crowds became even more frenzied when turning onto the north side of the Louvre from Rue Rivoli.

Fans broke through the police cordon, and police officers formed a human wall by holding hands to barely maintain order.

Roy heard someone singing "La Marseillaise," which quickly turned into a chorus of tens of thousands of people, shaking the ground slightly.

The parade ended at the City Hall, where Paris Mayor Delanoë stood on the steps to greet the procession with a broad smile.

The whole city was blue on this day.

Champagne, songs, sweat, and tears, mixed with the July heatwave, transformed into the hottest summer in Paris.

As night fell, Roy sat alone in the back of a black sedan, the medal around his neck gleaming faintly under the streetlights.

As the Élysée Palace receded from the car window, its wrought-iron gates slowly closed, shutting out the palace's dazzling lights behind us.

Roy leaned back in his seat, his fingers gently tracing the brand-new Legion of Honor medal on his chest.

The flashing lights, handshakes, and applause that filled the Élysée Palace just two hours ago have now turned into the sound of the wind outside the car window.

The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror: "Going straight home, sir?"

Roy gazed out the window at the Parisian nightscape flashing by; the revelry on the Champs-Élysées continued, with waving national flags and rising fireworks faintly visible in the distance.

He gave a soft "hmm" and leaned back wearily in his seat.

As the car crossed the Seine, he took off the medal and held it in his hand, the metal edge digging painfully into his palm.

Roy closed the medal box and looked up out the window.

The lights of Paris flowed through the night, and the Eiffel Tower in the distance shone with blue and white light, each steel beam flowing with its own unique color.

The beam of light from the spire pierced the night sky, casting a giant phantom of the tricolor flag onto the clouds.

The summer of my nineteenth year has ended.

Those sweat-soaked jerseys, the deafening cheers, and the blue and white ribbons fluttering in the air—it was all like a magnificent dream.

They ignited the passion of the entire nation with the ball at their feet, sending millions to the streets to celebrate and leaving a new mark on football history.

This feeling of changing the world is intoxicating, as if you're standing on top of the world.

Once you've tasted this flavor, you'll never forget it.

The exhilarating thrill of the entire city cheering for you, the weighty feeling in your palm when the trophy is raised above your head.

In the rearview mirror, the blue light of the Eiffel Tower was fading into the distance, but countless nights like this awaited him ahead: the smell of sweat in the locker room, the thunderous silence before the penalty spot, and the deafening roar of cheers when the final whistle blew.

He has kept in mind the cruel rule of competitive sports in countless moments: winner takes all.

But I also remind myself occasionally: no football talk tonight.

When Roy returned to his apartment on Boulevard Montaigne in the 8th arrondissement of Paris, the door was already crowded with reporters and fans.

He stopped, took the pen offered to him, and patiently signed dozens of names on the jersey, photos, and notebook. The crowd remained noisy, and the flashes from the cameras made him squint.

Finally, he smiled and raised his voice, saying, "Alright everyone, victory belongs to all. You should go and celebrate."

After saying that, he waved to everyone, turned around, swiped his card, and entered the apartment building.

The motion-sensor lights in the lobby came on, and the cheers outside gradually faded behind the heavy glass doors.

Roy stepped into the elevator, pressed the floor button, and said to his assistant, Heathlen, "There are too many reporters here. It's not very convenient to stay here. We need to find another place."

Heathlen nodded and quickly noted it down: "We're already looking for more private accommodations, with security and transportation being top priorities."

As the elevator slowly ascended, Roy added, "You've worked hard these past few days, take three days off. I don't have any plans for the future, and I'm also thinking of taking a break."

He took out his checkbook from his suit pocket, quickly signed the amount, and handed it to Heathlen: "Your bonus is being advanced. You can take your family on a Seine River cruise; remember to book a window seat at that Michelin three-star restaurant. This money is enough to settle down in the 7th arrondissement. Hasn't your father always wanted to open a café? That old shop on the corner of the Luxembourg Gardens that's still up for sale is quite nice. Don't answer work calls for the next three days, unless the Eiffel Tower collapses."

Roy was always fair in rewarding and punishing, and never stingy with what was due.

Hisslen's fingers trembled slightly as he gripped the check, and his Adam's apple bobbed twice before he managed to utter a sound:
"Perfect timing. Things have progressed in Madrid as well. The property you showed me has been finalized. It's in the Salamanca district, very close to Real Madrid's youth academy, making it convenient for Rowan's training. The environment is quiet and security is excellent."

Roy nodded slightly: "Not bad."

The elevator stopped at the target floor with a "ding," and the two stepped out one after the other.

The motion-sensor lights in the corridor turned on, illuminating Roy's slightly tired yet relaxed expression.

Heathrow opened his notebook: "Sir, Sir Alex Ferguson wishes to meet in Paris in the next few days. Also, Chelsea CEO Kenyon has been waiting for your reply. Should we fly to Madrid to settle in first?"

Roy rubbed his temples. "See Ferguson first. Book a flight to London, just in time for the F1 race at Silverstone."

"It's alright to let Kenyon wait a couple more days."

Roy turned the key and opened the apartment door, adding, "After I see Ferguson, I'll personally take Rowan to Madrid. It's the kid's first time training away from home for an extended period, so I need to make sure he's settled in."

He then took out a commemorative envelope from the Real Madrid youth academy from the entryway cabinet, saying, "This is a surprise for his enrollment."

Then he opened the refrigerator in the kitchen, snapped open the can of Coke, tilted his head back and took a big gulp, smacking his lips in satisfaction. This was a rare occurrence in his daily routine of abstaining from sugar.

Heathlen stood by the door and asked softly, "Sir, is there anything else?"

Then the TV screen lit up, and the familiar theme song from Friends played.

Roy hummed, shaking his head, "I'll be there for you~".

Bian said lazily, "I'm rewatching from the first season. Want to watch an episode?"

Just then, Claire walked in carrying her briefcase, her high heels clicking crisply on the marble floor.

She glanced at the TV screen and saw Rachel, dressed in a wedding gown, stumbling into the coffee shop. She couldn't help but laugh out loud: "My God, Rachel looks like a clumsy swan running in that wedding dress."

He casually tossed his bag onto the sofa and sat down next to Roy. "I can't miss this episode."

Roy casually grabbed two cans of Coke from the coffee table, tossed one to Heathlen, and slid the other toward Claire.

Heathlen caught it steadily, and Claire snapped open the tab, tilted her head back and took a big gulp, exhaling a satisfied breath: "If Monica knew that she took in a rich girl who can't even use a coffee machine, she'd probably regret it to death."

On TV, Ross was slumped over his shoulders, complaining about his failed marriage, when Joey put her arm around his shoulder and delivered the line: "Women are like ice cream flavors."

"The amounts are the same, so divorce might not be a bad thing."

Roy read the second half of the sentence almost simultaneously, and casually squeezed the empty Coke can with a cracking sound.

He was curled up on the sofa, his toes dangling from his slippers, a far cry from the fierce striker he had been on the pitch yesterday.

He's exactly like a college student who can recite the lines from every episode.

Outside the apartment, sports news was playing his goal highlights, newspaper headlines featured his sweat-soaked profile, and fans in bars were debating whether he should go to Real Madrid or Manchester United.

Several eight-figure transfer budgets lay quietly in the accounts of top banks, and the financial directors of the big clubs had already neatly stacked up the euros, just waiting for Roy's pen to make the final stroke on the contract.

Nike, Coca-Cola, and Rolex held separate small meetings behind closed doors.

Now the three companies are each busy calculating their own figures. Although their algorithms are different, the numbers that the calculators eventually produce are all so long that they make your eyes dizzy.

This summer, every little thing Roy did was like a magic touch, making brands count their money until they woke up laughing in the middle of the night.

Meanwhile, actuaries from five or six international brands were holding a meeting overnight, converting Roy's exposure and game ratings into euros, and precisely calculating how much profit they could make by signing him.

At that moment, at least seven or eight flights around the world were flying to his city, with negotiators from different brands sitting in first class, each with a thick stack of endorsement contracts in their briefcases.

These multinational corporation elites all flew here specifically for the same 19-year-old.

At that moment, Roy was laughing so hard at Joey's comment, "Women are like ice cream," that he choked on his cola.

The following day, L'Équipe journalists Duruk and Royjo met at a quiet café in Montmartre, Paris.

Roy stirred his espresso and began to speak eloquently:

“That trophy doesn’t belong to me, nor to the 23 teammates. It belongs to every French kid who kicks cans on the street. The Golden Boot proves that a boy from a small town can change his destiny with his own two feet, and the significance of the Best Player award is that when the descendant of immigrants lifts the trophy, cheers erupt simultaneously in the suburbs of Marseille and Paris.”

“My great-grandfather was a Chinese laborer and my mother was a refugee from Vietnam. They taught me how to survive in the cracks. But France gave me the opportunity to stand in front of the world and prove that this land can embrace all skin colors and stories. When the national anthem plays, no one asks me where my ancestors came from; they only see the tricolor flag on my chest.”

“Now, when I pass by Chinese restaurants in Nice, I can still see the owners posting pictures of my matches next to the cashier. The way those Chinese kids look at me is exactly the same as how I looked at Zidane back then. This is the most beautiful legacy of football.”

Duluk asked him about the most difficult moment of his career.

Roy paused for a moment: "It wasn't the injury, nor the loss. It was that when we lifted the European Cup trophy, I couldn't find my father in the stands."

Truk put down his pen, and the red light of the recorder continued to flash in silence.

"This is the first time you've mentioned him in public."

"Yes."

Roy gently swirled his coffee cup. "It's been eleven years, and I've always avoided this topic. But recently I've discovered that the more I try not to think about it, the clearer the memory becomes."

“You know, I come from Boulogne-sur-Mer. My father was a Chinese immigrant who stayed in the North Sea when I was eight years old.”

“My father spent his whole life battling the ocean. My grandfather was in poor health, and my grandmother, a French-Italian woman named Maria, passed away. He started as a sailor and worked on fishing boats for half his life, finally saving enough money to buy his own fishing boat when he was forty. Do you know what he named the boat? ‘Maria’.”

“When I was a child, I didn’t understand and asked him why he named his ship after the people who abandoned him. He said with his pipe in his mouth: ‘Son, some names are not for commemoration, but for reminders—reminding yourself never to become that kind of person.’”

“When I was eight years old, the ‘Maria’ encountered a storm in the North Sea. When the cabins started to leak, nearby trawlers came to the rescue. Most of the crew got into the lifeboats, but my father found that the chief engineer was still stuck in the lower deck. He told the first mate to take the others and go ahead, while he turned around to rescue the man.”

"The rescue team said that when they last saw my father, he was using a fire axe to smash open the deformed hatch. Just as he was pulling the chief engineer out, the broken mainmast hit them. The chief engineer was swept by the waves to the lifeboat, and my father became the only victim of that maritime disaster."

"That ship became his coffin. Ironically, this man abandoned by Mary guarded his 'Maria' until his death."

“Now, every time I return to Boulogne-sur-Mer, I go to the dock. The children there are still kicking cans, just like I did back then. Only now, when they chase after footballs, my name and number are printed on their jerseys.”

Drucker put down his pen and remained silent for a moment.

He took off his glasses, wiped them, put them back on, and asked, "Would you be willing to have this story published?"

Roy nodded.

"Is this spirit of sacrifice the most precious legacy your father left you?" Duluk asked softly.

Roy shook his head, gazing into the distance: "No. The most important thing he taught me is that the song of humanity is the song of courage."

He paused for a moment, "Courage isn't just about sacrifice. Getting up at five every morning to go out to sea is courage, believing in humanity even after being abandoned is courage, and naming your beloved ship after the person who abandoned you is also courage."

“My father never called her an ‘enemy,’ even though she had reason to be remembered that way. He said it’s too easy to hate someone, but it’s hard to understand. To understand why she left and why she never looked back.”

"It's the same on the football field. It takes courage to play with an injury, but it also takes courage to learn to leave the field to recover when appropriate; it takes courage to take a penalty kick, but it also takes courage to give the opportunity to a teammate who is in better form."

Roy twirled his coffee cup. “My father taught me with his life that courage comes in a million forms, but it is always the most shining quality of mankind.”

Having just finished an in-depth interview with Duruk, Roy sat in the interview room of Le Figaro that afternoon.

A reporter from Le Figaro asked about the Legion of Honour.

Roy told a reporter from Le Figaro with a smile, "The president joked that I was awarded the medal because I play football like art. But I think it should be dedicated to all ordinary French people—those who work hard, pay their taxes on time, and are passionate about football. The honor of the European Championship belongs to them; they deserve it."

The reporter sized up Roy.

According to the information, he only has a high school education in Madrid. Although it is rumored that he loves reading, he spoke with composure at this moment, almost like a fledgling politician.

The reporter said half-jokingly, "I have no doubt that you will go into politics in the future."

Roy smiled and shook his head: "I have already given my life to football."

That evening, Roy wore a sharp suit to attend a Dior dinner.

As a Dior Homme ambassador, Roy walked into the dinner party arm in arm with his girlfriend Leticia.

As a national hero who had just won the European Championship for France, his appearance immediately caused a sensation.

The flashbulbs went off in a flurry as reporters jostled to call out their names.

The guests present also stopped talking and cast admiring glances at the scene.

Someone whispered, "Look, that's our champion!"

Roy politely nodded to everyone, while Leticia smiled elegantly; the two of them were undoubtedly the most dazzling stars of the night.

At the dinner party, Roy was chatting with several designers when someone suddenly tapped him on the shoulder from behind.

Turning around, Zidane's signature bald head was particularly eye-catching under the lights.

Hey! Zizou.

Roy opened his arms in surprise, and the two shared a firm hug.

Zidane joked with a smile: "I bet you don't want to talk to me about the 4-4-2 formation on such a formal occasion tonight?"

"how come?"

Roy raised his champagne glass. "Always ready."

“It’s settled then,” Zidane winked. “See you in Madrid in a while? By the way, Parker told me you invited him to Monaco. I heard your brother is planning to play professional basketball?”

Tony Parker of the San Antonio Spurs has a very close relationship with the French national team players and often makes time to visit them.

Roy smiled and said, "Yeah, that kid's been practicing really hard lately."

Zidane nodded knowingly: "So, you plan to personally escort him to Madrid?"

Roy shrugged: "We have to help him settle in, after all, it's the first time he's been so far from home."

Zidane patted him on the shoulder and said half-jokingly, "Don't worry, the basketball atmosphere in Spain is good. If he has the talent of you, he will definitely make it."

The two exchanged a smile and clinked glasses in tacit agreement.

Not far away, Hollywood star Orlando Bloom was talking quietly with a dark-haired woman.

That's French actress Eva Green.

Just then, someone gently patted him on the shoulder.

"Roy!"

came a familiar voice.

He turned around and saw Gisele Bündchen.

The Brazilian supermodel was smiling at him.

“What a coincidence,” Bronchen said. “I didn’t expect to see you here again.”

Roy laughed too: "Yeah, the last time we met was at the Renault team owner's yacht party."

Bangchen nodded: "That party was really lively."

Bündchen turned slightly to Roy and introduced him: "This is Orlando Krum, a Hollywood actor."

Krum was tall with dark brown curly hair, a neatly trimmed stubble on his chin, and deep brown eyes that held a friendly smile.

He stepped forward and extended his hand: "I've heard so much about you. Your performance on the field is amazing. I've always wanted to get to know you."

At that moment, Eva Green, who was standing not far away, also walked over.

Her long, black, curly hair cascaded over her shoulders, making her skin appear as white as snow, and her mysterious green eyes held a smile.

She said softly, "Mr. Roy, Orlando and I were just talking about how we really wanted to get to know you, the hero of the French team."

Roy smiled and replied, "Thank you. How's your Kingdom of Heaven movie coming along?"

Orlando shrugged and said half-jokingly, "Eating sand in the desert every day is still much easier than playing football."

Everyone laughed, and the atmosphere became relaxed and pleasant.

Gisele Bündchen, holding a glass of champagne, thoughtfully observed Roy.

The last time I saw him at the yacht party, this young man had just scored a hat-trick in the Champions League, thrashing Deportivo La Coruña 9-3.

At that time, he was still a rising star.

And now, the man in front of me is the core of a treble-winning team, the top scorer of the European Championship, and the hottest candidate for this year's Ballon d'Or.

She clearly remembers that at that yacht party, most people just regarded Roy as "that guy who had just scored 9-3."

Now, all eyes in the banquet hall were subtly following him.

Hollywood stars vie to take photos with him, designers eagerly discuss his style, and even waiters secretly exchange gossip about his transfer rumors.

In less than a year, this young man, who was once considered a "temporary sensation," has become a true superstar who can influence the atmosphere of the entire banquet.

Bangchen swirled his glass, the ice cubes making a crisp sound.

This kind of transformation is much more interesting than a glamorous turn on the catwalk.

She suddenly remembered the gossip news from a while ago.

Dutch supermodel Doutzen Kroes broke up with Roy, and Roy even openly admitted in an interview: "She initiated it, and our breakup was amicable."

At the time, the fashion industry was speculating about the reasons. Some said that Du Chen couldn't stand the long-distance relationship, while others said that Roy was too focused on football.

But now, looking at the composed man in front of him, Bangchen suddenly felt that perhaps the answer was quite simple.

Some people are destined to fly higher, and Du Chen at that time was probably just not ready to keep up with that pace.

The fame of football stars is truly fascinating.

Players on the same team may be recognized only by their own fans and go unnoticed on the street; while others become global icons, known even to people who don't watch football much.

Just like Ronaldo, whether it's a fashionable dinner in Paris, a business event in New York, or a private party in Dubai, everyone will unconsciously stop talking whenever he appears.

Fashion editors who are usually arrogant will suddenly become reserved, business tycoons will unconsciously adjust their ties, and even waiters will carry plates more gently.

And now, Roy is starting to have that kind of aura too.

This didn't come out of thin air; it was built up from countless nights of extra training, from the goals scored in last season's Champions League, and from the performance that thrilled the entire nation of France in the recently concluded European Championship.

But when he stands in the center of a champagne-scented banquet, watching Hollywood stars vying to take photos with him, he can't help but think of the images from the 98 World Cup.

Two years later

Roy gently swirled his wine glass.

Zidane was chatting and laughing not far away, his bald head particularly conspicuous under the lights.

This is the man who, six years ago, brought French football its most glorious night with two headers at the Stade de France.

That was the moment that truly made a player a legend.

He has indeed gained fame, scored goals, and secured commercial endorsements, but compared to his predecessor, he still lacks the most crucial element.

The reason why names like Zidane and Ronaldo command respect is not only because of their football skills, but also because they have proven themselves on the biggest stage of the World Cup.

Roy took a sip of his drink, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed not only champagne, but also a burning desire.

All of France is now discussing whether this new generation can replicate their legend in Germany.

If he really does lift the World Cup trophy, those celebrities who are currently smiling warmly at him will probably look at him with eyes of pilgrimage.

(End of this chapter)