When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 187 Hunting and Prey

On the morning of July 7, 2004, Henri sat at the dining table in his Paris apartment, the morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows onto his freshly brewed coffee.

"Roy, Roy, it's Roy again. At this rate, all the insomniacs in Paris will have to start counting sheep instead of Roys at night. One Roy, two Roys, three Roys."

Henry stared at the huge photo on the front page of L'Équipe and muttered.

In the newspaper, Roy held the Henri Delaunay Trophy aloft, his young face shining brightly under the flashing lights.

Nicole was spreading jam on her toast when she heard this and almost choked on her laughter: "When did you learn to rhyme? Want to switch careers and become a rapper?"

"Do you know what's the most ridiculous thing?"

"When the president was awarding medals the day before yesterday, someone actually asked me, 'Is it stressful to be teammates with a genius teenager?'"

"Calm down, Thierry National (a nickname French fans have for him)."

Nicole pushed the fried egg in front of him. "Last night, when you were sleeping with the medal, you said we did it, not that I did it, and you said that Anelka, that bastard, must be so jealous."

"You just don't want to admit it. Roy has climbed above everyone else in less than two years. But his ability is undeniable, and his performance this year has been impeccable. You should be happy to have a teammate like that; he always scores, doesn't he? Actually, you're happy inside, but you just won't admit it. You just can't stand that a 19-year-old has suddenly become the darling of all of France, which reminds you of your days in the Monaco youth academy."

Nicole's words made Henry's face darken.

Monaco, the club he once played for, has now swept across Europe under Roy's leadership, winning the treble.

"what did the doctor say?"

Henry suddenly interrupted her, "It's about our plans to have a baby."

Nicole paused for a moment, about to answer, when Henry's phone suddenly rang.

The caller ID displayed the words "Wenger" flashing on the screen.

“Arsène,” Henry answered the phone, his voice immediately becoming professional, “Yes, I saw the news. No, I have no comment. Next Monday?”

He glanced at Nicole, who was mouthing, "The doctor said everything is normal."

Wenger's voice continued on the other end of the phone: "News has come from inside Manchester United that Roy is going to England to meet with Ferguson in the next few days. Of all the clubs, he chose Manchester United first."

The sunlight outside the window suddenly became dazzling. Henry squinted and vaguely saw a huge poster of Roy hanging outside Old Trafford, and the 19-year-old boy celebrating a goal at Highbury Stadium in a Manchester United red jersey.

He felt a wave of dizziness, recalling how Roy had torn apart Monaco's defense like a ghost last season.

Now, this nightmare may repeat itself several times every season, and you have to watch him rack up points for other teams on the leaderboard.

"Okay, coach."

Henry hung up the phone and let out a long sigh. "Pre-season training has been moved up."

Nicole pushed the sheet of instructions for preparing for pregnancy that the doctor had given her over: "So?"

Henry stared at the paper, remained silent for a few seconds, then suddenly broke into a smile: "Next year I might be facing off against Roy in England. We'll see who's the Premier League's best striker then."

He spoke in a deliberately relaxed tone, but Nicole could tell that his smile didn't reach his eyes at all.

"I originally wanted to."

His voice suddenly choked up, "When the child is born, his father will be the Premier League champion that year."

Nicole saw her husband's Adam's apple bob, and she knew what he had swallowed.

It was the feeling of powerlessness against Roy, the fear of Manchester United having that goal-scoring machine, and the sober awareness that he was about to face the strongest opponent of his career.

The photo of Roy holding the Henri Delaunay Trophy in the newspapers is still a reminder to them: the 19-year-old has swept across Europe, and now he is going to bring his talent to the Premier League.

Dewdrops still clung to the grass of the training center attached to the Stade de France.

Roy and Zola stood facing each other, the ball rolling back and forth between them with a dull "thump-thump" sound.

Gianfranco Zola, born in Italy in 1966, was a legendary striker. During his playing career, he played for Napoli, Parma (1995 UEFA Cup winner), and Cagliari. He joined Chelsea in 1996 and reached his peak: in his first year, he helped the team end a 26-year FA Cup drought, and the following year he won the Cup Winners' Cup. He was once voted the greatest player in Chelsea's history.

In 2003, after Abramovich acquired Chelsea, Zola returned to his hometown in Italy.

He was preparing for his coaching qualification exam while enjoying a rare moment of leisure.

At that moment, he received an invitation from Roy's team through Raiola.

Although Roy ultimately did not reach an agreement with the Italian agent, Raiola still actively facilitated the meeting, hoping to establish a good relationship with the rising football star.

During the European Championship, Zola made a special trip to Portugal to observe Roy's performance.

When he saw the young striker break tournament records with 17 Champions League goals and 10 European Championship goals, Zola was convinced he had met a player who could rewrite football history.

This ultimately led him to accept the invitation to become Roy's personal technical coach.

Zola watched as Roy once again delivered a precise through ball, which seemed to have eyes as it pierced through the cones.

He nodded to himself, thinking to himself that this kid's football IQ was indeed high.

With his cunning positioning and ruthless shooting, he is already the world's most dangerous striker.

He still remembered the first time he heard about Roy.

At that time, he had just retired from Chelsea, while Roy was just starting out as a young player for Monaco in Ligue 1.

At that time, Roy had three main abilities: he could run like the wind, his explosive power was terrifying, and he had a keen sense of goal, so he could seize any opportunity to score.

Later, the kid gradually figured it out.

First, he developed a beautiful free kick.

Then there's dribbling. Heaven knows where he learned those fancy moves; a flick of his ankle can leave a person completely disoriented.

Zola and Roy stood facing each other, fifteen meters apart, passing the ball back and forth at a low, fast pace.

The ball darted across the grass, each touch bringing just the right amount of power and spin.

Roy's passes are getting more and more accurate. Zola deliberately adjusts the angles to be tricky, but the kid always manages to catch them steadily and then return an even trickier one.

Zola was secretly surprised; this rate of progress was much faster than his own back then.

This kid is ten times more talented than me, yet he still practices ground passing so hard, honing his skills one pass after another.

He shook his head and decided to pass on all the experience he had accumulated over the years to Roy, to help this hardworking young man go further.

On the training field, Roy wiped his sweat with the hem of his jersey.

Zola's low cross bounced twice on the grass, and he flicked it with his left foot, causing the ball to suddenly change direction and come to a steady stop in a small arc.

“Mr. Zola,” Roy said, fiddling with the ball with the tip of his shoe, “I’ve found that low, curved balls are actually easier to catch if they have half a spin less.”

As he spoke, he gently pushed with the inside of his right foot, and the ball, with a slight spin, suddenly slowed down just before touching Zola's toes.

The veteran's eyebrows twitched.

Roy continued gesturing: "There's also the issue of anticipation. If you observe your teammates' center of gravity before receiving the ball..."

He suddenly kicked the ball, which flew across the grass, just enough for Zola to catch without adjusting his steps.

The two exchanged ideas during training.

Zola frequently shares his years of accumulated experience, while Roy gradually incorporates the new talents he gained after the European Championship into his own technique.

"Platini's talent for ground passing."

Platini was known for his accurate passing; his low passes combined power and flexibility, allowing him to adapt flexibly to the situation on the field.

His most outstanding feature is his unique ankle control. With what seems like a casual push, the ball always finds his teammates with the most reasonable speed, spin, and trajectory. In particular, his low through balls that penetrate the defense are often in place before the opponent can react.

This effortless passing style made him one of the most lethal midfield engines in Europe during the 80s.

That evening, two military green Lada Niva SUVs rolled over the gravel road in Salbri, kicking up dust with their rear ends.

Saarbrück, the "hunting capital of France" located 200 kilometers from Paris, boasts 10000 hectares of private hunting grounds and is a popular destination for European hunters to hunt wild boar, deer, and hares.

The Lada Niva is a legendary off-road vehicle launched by Russia's AvtoVAZ in 1977. With its pure mechanical all-time four-wheel drive, 220mm ground clearance, and ultra-light body (1.2 tons), it has become the world's most durable off-road vehicle for the common people.

France was once one of the main importers of Ladaniva, which was favored by hunting enthusiasts due to its simplicity, reliability, and low maintenance costs.

The bodyguard's black Mercedes kept a distance of fifty meters, following behind like a silent shadow.

Roy rested one hand on the steering wheel and rolled down the window with the other, letting the evening breeze, carrying the scent of pine, blow in.

The brake lights of the car in front suddenly came on as it turned into an oak grove bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun.

Jean Reno opened the car door, his khaki hunting suit neatly covering his muscular frame.

As he landed, he casually adjusted the bullet belt on his shoulder and dangled his hunting knife at his waist.

The eyes beneath the brim of the baseball cap had already scanned the woods, and the right hand habitually reached for the binoculars hanging at the waist.

The sound of the trunk opening startled the crows in the tree, and the hunting rifle inside gleamed faintly in the twilight.

Roy and Jean Reno met at the Dior show during Paris Fashion Week in February of this year.

The two sat next to each other and chatted happily because of their shared love of movies.

Jean Reno, 56, is a veteran actor in the French film industry, while the younger Roy is very interested in the film and television industry.

Over the past six months, they have kept in touch, occasionally discussing movies and hunting in Parisian cafes.

Roy had always been curious about hunting and had already obtained all the necessary permits and formalities.

This invitation to the Salbri hunting grounds marked his first real hunting experience.

As a novice, he was both nervous and excited, while the experienced Jean Reno took on the role of mentor.

The guide was squatting by the fire making coffee when Jean Reno greeted him as the firewood crackled and popped.

Roy turned off the engine, pulled the double-barreled shotgun from the back seat, and the metal parts made a crisp clanging sound.

He opened the car door and got out, deftly swinging the gun barrel to check the ammunition, all in one smooth motion.

In the setting sun, his tall figure leaned slightly forward, his shoulder line taut in a clean arc beneath his hunting attire.

As the butt of the rifle rested against his shoulder, the muscle lines of his arm were faintly visible through the fabric. His index finger was loosely on the trigger, and his gaze followed the sights to the distant bushes.

As the sun set, darkness gradually fell over the oak forest.

Roy gripped his shotgun tightly and followed behind Jean Reno.

The guide walked at the front, stopping every now and then to point to the hoof prints on the ground and explain in a low voice.

"Look here,"

Jean Reno crouched down and pointed to the tracks in the mud, "These are the footprints of a wild boar, they're still fresh."

Roy observed carefully, just like him, and soon identified the prey's tracks.

Roy's hand trembled slightly when he first raised the gun.

Jean Reno stood behind him and gently straightened his arm.

"Keep your breathing steady, hold your breath when aiming, and pull the trigger decisively."

By the third attempt, Roy had grasped the essentials.

When he heard a rustling sound from the bushes, he quickly raised his gun, his movements clean and efficient.

Gunshots echoed in the twilight, followed by a muffled thud from the distant bushes.

"Hit!"

"The guide shouted excitedly."

They followed the trail of blood and found a young wild boar about twenty meters away.

Jean Reno patted Roy on the shoulder: "Well done, a success on the first try."

On the way back to camp, Roy carried his spoils, exhausted but unable to hide his excitement.

The guide had already begun preparing dinner by the campfire.

Jean Reno opened a bottle of red wine and poured a glass for everyone.

“To our new hunters,” Jean Reno raised his glass, a smile playing on his lips, “and to the European champions, our French lads.”

The guide added a piece of firewood to the campfire, the firelight reflecting on the three men's faces. In the distance, the cries of night birds mingled with the clinking of wine glasses.

Champagne glasses clinked under the crystal chandelier of the London restaurant, the glass reflecting Mourinho's furrowed brow.

Jean Reno and Roy's laughter still echoed in the night of Salbri, while 400 kilometers away, Mourinho gently placed the wine glass between his fingers back on the linen tablecloth.

Chelsea CEO Kenyon is discussing the summer transfer budget, but the Portuguese manager's eyes are always on the window.

FC Barcelona officially announced yesterday that they have reached a four-year contract agreement with Portuguese midfielder Deco.

According to Spanish media reports, Barcelona will pay Porto a transfer fee of 1200 million euros and include young player Quaresma in the deal.

The Portuguese international, fresh from his European Championship campaign, will arrive in Barcelona today for his signing ceremony. Club president Laporta previously told the media, "I am 100% confident that Deco will become a member of Barça."

Chelsea had wanted to sign Deco, but he ultimately failed to join Mourinho's team.

Meanwhile, Chelsea's top transfer target, Roy, is about to arrive in England, but the first person he will meet upon arrival is Manchester United manager Ferguson, despite Chelsea offering more favorable terms.

France's captain and key center-back Marcel Desailly has just announced his retirement from the national team, and now he may be released by Chelsea.

Although Chelsea had previously stated they would let him decide his future after the European Championship, new manager Mourinho plans to streamline the squad, and 36-year-old Desailly has unexpectedly become one of the targets for a clearance.

Desailly played for Chelsea for 6 years, making 222 appearances and helping the team win the FA Cup.

He had a brilliant career, winning the Champions League with Marseille and AC Milan, and was the core of the defense for the French national team in their 1998 World Cup and 2000 European Championship victories.

Last season he was still Chelsea's first captain, while Terry was only the vice-captain.

In the European Championship final, Desailly scored the crucial second goal, helping France defeat Greece to win the title.

After the match, his initial thought of potentially leaving Chelsea suddenly changed.

He firmly stated that he would fulfill the final year of his contract with Chelsea and refused to terminate it.

Furthermore, he privately promised the club that he would do everything in his power to persuade target player Roy to join Chelsea.

Mourinho held his wine glass in silence for a long time, then suddenly lowered his voice and leaned close to Kenyon:
“Listen, we have to see Roy before that old fox Ferguson does. I don’t care how many resources it takes—send a private jet to pick him up, have Desailly arrange a meeting with him as a fellow countryman, or even just wait for him at Charles de Gaulle Airport!”

“Peter, ask Abu to think of a way. Aren’t the Russians the best at these ‘special methods’?”

He made a wrist-binding gesture, "As long as we can bring the person to the negotiating table, I think Mr. Abu is definitely more experienced than us in how to do it."

"Did you see how he destroyed Porto in the Champions League? In the European Championship, he single-handedly sent my home country, Portugal, home! Three goals and one assist—a player of this caliber deserves to wear a Chelsea jersey!"

Although Kenyon was taken aback by his bold proposal, he still agreed to pass it on to Abu.

Ferguson sat in his Manchester office, phone in hand, confirming the itinerary with Mendes.

“Jorge, it’s settled then,” Ferguson said calmly. “On the evening of July 9th, I’ll arrange dinner in Manchester, and we’ll have a good talk about Roy’s future.”

Mendes on the other end of the phone readily agreed.

After hanging up, Ferguson leaned back in his chair with a slight smile on his lips.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Manchester night was already as dark as ink.

He recalled the figure who single-handedly tore through the defense in last year's Champions League.

With a terrifying record of over 60 goals in a single season, and that innate killer instinct, he was the perfect candidate for the Manchester United number seven jersey, a position they had been waiting for for ten years.

"finally."

The veteran manager muttered to himself as he took out a draft contract from a drawer, the gold-plated Manchester United crest gleaming faintly under the lamp.

Thinking back to the scout reports sent to various places over the past 18 months, and those overused game tapes.

Now, this young man who made all of Europe tremble in the Champions League is finally going to wear that legendary number 7 jersey.

Ferguson gazed at the night outside the window, sketching out Manchester United's future attacking blueprint in his mind: if they could sign Roy, then grit their teeth and buy Rooney, and sell Van Nistelrooy to Real Madrid to recoup funds. Ronaldo's form was getting better and better, and he was beginning to show the strength of a top star.

He and Roy took turns attacking from the left and right flanks, keeping the opponent's defense constantly on its toes.

Ronaldinho orchestrated the attack from midfield.

The 31-year-old Giggs can serve as a rotation player, and such an attacking combination would make not only the Premier League but the entire European football world tremble.

The old coach tapped his fingers on the table. Such a luxurious attacking line was something even Sir Matt Busby's legendary Manchester United team never had.

July 7, White Hart Lane, London. Santini, fresh from leading France to the European Championship title, stood in the center of the pitch in a Tottenham Hotspur training kit, surveying the century-old stadium.

The cheers of the fans were still echoing in his ears, but he knew that the real challenge had just begun.

Just a few days ago, he was on the coaching bench during the European Championship final, watching Roy score a crucial goal to help France lift the trophy.

Now, this championship-winning coach has become Tottenham's new manager.

In the hotel late at night, Santini flipped through the Premier League schedule.

It suddenly occurred to me that this young man helped him win the Confederations Cup and the European Championship, but now he may very well become his rival.

Santini shook his head with a wry smile, recalling two past events.

At that time, he had just taken over the French team, and in order to reorganize the locker room, he deliberately threw the veteran Wiltord's number 11 jersey to the newcomer Roy.

They intended to use the newcomers to give the veterans a warning, but they didn't expect to attract an even more terrifying beast.

In his first game wearing the number 11 jersey, Roy scored three goals, effectively sealing Wiltord off the bench.

Even more terrifying was that on the training field, this young man destroyed all his competitors like a hungry wolf tearing apart its prey.

The second time was in the national team locker room, where he tentatively asked Roy if he would be willing to take over the number 10 jersey left by Zidane.

The young man didn't even lift his eyelids: "Coach, if I wear size 10, I'll have to keep wearing it."

The kid's meaning couldn't be clearer: if you dare to put me on the throne, I dare to dethrone Zidane.

Do you dare? Santini doesn't.

Late at night, Roy's car rolled along the gravel road and turned into the Lacletta Estate deep in the pine forest.

The 18th-century stone farmhouse is hidden in the shadows of the trees, with only two cast-iron lamps on the porch casting a dim yellow light.

He pushed open the oak door, and a scent of pine, leather, and lavender wafted out.

The hotel had just been cleaned during the day, but the beams and pillars of the old building still exuded the scent of time.

A deer head and a wild boar specimen hang on the wall of the hall, their glass eyeballs gleaming coldly under the wall lamps.

The fireplace, which should have been lit, was empty. In the summer, it was filled with a basket of dried lavender, the twigs rustling occasionally in the night breeze.

Leticia sat in a wicker chair by the French windows, resting her chin on her hand, lost in thought.

A half-empty glass of white wine sat on the coffee table in front of me.

The July night breeze carried the scent of pine forests as it blew in, and the gauze curtains gently brushed against her shoulders.

The wall lamps in the distant manor cast a warm yellow glow on the glass, making her cheeks slightly flushed.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, or perhaps it was the sun exposure from riding a horse in the evening.

Hearing the door open, she turned around with a smile on her face: "Did you hunt anything good?"

Roy took off his coat, which was damp with night dew, and hung it by the door. He walked to her side, bent down, and gently kissed her forehead, his voice tinged with laughter: "We only hunted one wild boar, but we did run into a beautiful doe."

He ran his fingers along her sunburnt earlobe. "It's a pity it ran too fast; it disappeared into the woods in the blink of an eye."

He took a pine cone out of his pocket and placed it on the coffee table, saying, "I brought you a trophy."

Leticia took the pine cone, her fingertips touching the calluses on his palm.

Roy's kiss still lingered on her forehead, its tenderness leaving her momentarily dazed.

But the next second, she suddenly saw the calmness in his eyes.

That polite, composed calmness was like the gleaming silverware in a hotel lobby—beautiful, yet forever cold.

But during this time, she finally tasted the same feeling as Doutzen Kroos, like holding a cup of tea that would never get warm.

You can get close to someone like Roy for fame and fortune.

He is never stingy with money and doesn't mind letting you share in his glory.

He will introduce you to important connections, help you secure the best resources, and even pave the way for you personally.

If you have ambition, he can help you take your career to the next level.

But don't get me wrong, this isn't love, it's a transaction.

He approves of your ambition and admires your rapid rise, but when you truly try to enter his world, you'll find that it already has a price tag.

He will also give you the most perfect romantic experience, remembering your favorite dishes for candlelight dinners, never repeating the same birthday gift, and even the temperature of your good morning kiss will be just right.

But when you really want to get closer, you'll find that behind that door lies a wilderness.

He remembers all anniversaries, but he can't remember what it feels like to love someone.

"Thank you."

She squeezed the pine cone and smiled, her fingernails digging into the crevices of the shell.

The chirping of night birds came from outside the window. Roy had already turned to pour wine, and a patch of sunburnt skin was visible on the back of his shirt.

Leticia stared at the tan line and thought: Perhaps even he himself didn't know that inside this perfect exterior lived a shadow that was always chasing the next prey.

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting dappled shadows on the disheveled silk sheets.

Leticia stretched languidly, the silk sheets slipping off her curvaceous body, revealing several ambiguous red marks on her shoulders and neck.

She stared at the ceiling, the hot breaths and burning touches from last night still seeming to burn on her skin.

Even though she knew perfectly well what kind of desolate soul lay hidden beneath that alluring exterior, she still trembled and surrendered when those calloused hands caressed her waist.

Roy's indifference was as constant as the Arctic permafrost.

He doesn't waver; he simply remains forever within his own territory.

When Leticia bit his shoulder in a moment of passion, all she tasted was the flavor of ice and snow.

On the bedside table, a silver trolley held freshly baked muffins, with butter slowly melting on the hot surface.

The freshly squeezed orange juice in the glass next to it still had water droplets on it, the yolk of the fried egg on the porcelain plate was round and plump, and the bacon was fried with slightly curled edges, emitting a peppery and caramelized aroma.

The coffee pot was steaming, and a thin layer of skin had formed on the milk in the milk jug.

Beside the crystal vase sat a Bulgari velvet box, beneath which lay a note with elegant handwriting: "Emergency flight to London to handle transfer matters. P.S.: Hope the sapphire suits your eyes. —R"

Leticia picked up the Bulgari sapphire necklace, the morning light dancing on the pear-shaped gemstone.

The sapphire set on the platinum pendant resembles a drop of frozen Mediterranean Sea.

July 8, 2004, Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris.

Roy boarded a flight to Manchester, England, and sat in a first-class seat.

Manchester United offered to chauffeur him by private jet, but he declined.

Meanwhile, his female manager, Claire, had just finished a tax matter in Ireland and was on her way from Dublin to Manchester.

Jorge Mendes is checking his watch in the Manchester Airport reception area.

Beside his coffee cup lay Manchester United's preliminary offer document, its margins covered with handwritten notes.

Outside the window, you can see flights landing one after another on the airport runway.

Meanwhile, in a hotel room in Manchester, the walls were covered with schedules and plans.

A Russian asked in a low voice, "Should we bring a gun?"

The leader immediately rebuked, "It's not a real kidnapping! We only need a twenty-minute time difference, let's not cause any unnecessary trouble."

He paused, then added, "Don't load live ammunition."

(End of this chapter)