When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 188 Respect.
At 12:10, Jorge Mendes stood at the VIP exit of Manchester Airport, glanced at his watch, and confirmed that Roy's flight had landed on time five minutes earlier.

A black Mercedes-Benz S500 was parked behind him. The driver was a security guard he had arranged, wearing headphones and on standby.

Mendes looked up and glanced around to make sure everything was normal.

His task was simple: pick up Roy and take him directly to a hotel in Manchester, avoiding any unnecessary interference.

He was all too familiar with the undercurrents of the transfer market, so he had to be cautious with every step he took.

At 12:15, Roy, wearing sunglasses and carrying a travel bag, slowly walked out of the VIP passage.

He walked toward the place he had agreed to meet Mendes, when he was suddenly stopped by a couple with a child.

"Oh my god, it really is Roy!"

The little girl excitedly tugged at her mother's clothes, while the little boy ran straight to Roy, his eyes sparkling.

The father smiled somewhat embarrassedly, but still stepped forward: "Excuse me, Mr. Roy, the children are your biggest fans, could you please sign an autograph?"

Roy looked around to make sure there were no reporters or suspicious people, then smiled and nodded: "Of course, but please don't make a fuss, okay?"

The little boy immediately handed over the notebook, while the little girl shyly offered her hat.

Roy knelt down, patiently signed his name, and then took a photo with his mother at her request.

The whole process seemed natural, but it actually lasted for more than five minutes.

At 12:18, Mendes was still standing in the same spot, glancing down at his watch from time to time.

Roy should have come out by now, but he's still nowhere to be seen at the VIP exit.

He took out his phone, ready to dial Roy's number.

“Something’s wrong”

He frowned and quickly took a few steps toward the passage.

A man in an airport security uniform strode toward Mendes with a grave expression: "Mr. Mendes? The crew just informed us that Mr. Roy suddenly felt unwell before landing and has been taken to the medical center for examination."

Mendes frowned.

Everything was normal before Roy boarded the plane, so how could a problem suddenly occur?

"What symptoms?"

"A sudden rise in blood pressure may be a reaction to altitude."

Security handed him a notification slip from the airport medical center, which even had Roy's signature on it.

Mendes immediately took out his phone and dialed Roy's number, but the phone was off.

His fingertip paused on the button for a second, then he looked up: "Where is the medical center?"

“Sector B, I’ll take you there.”

At 12:22, just as the security personnel's escort, Mendes, left, another "driver" in the same uniform quickly walked towards the Mercedes-Benz S500.

Holding an internal instruction sheet bearing the security company's anti-counterfeiting mark, he calmly told the actual driver, "Mr. Mendes has changed the plans at the last minute. There are reporters waiting at the main entrance. Mr. Roy will come out from the side entrance. We'll switch to the backup car."

The real driver frowned and quickly glanced at the document. The anti-counterfeiting watermark on the paper, the security company's seal, and even Mendes' signature were all flawless.

He looked up at his "colleague," who looked completely at ease, and whose name tag and headset were exactly the same as his own.

"Have you confirmed it?" the driver asked in a low voice.

"Just spoke on the radio."

The "colleague" shook his headphones, his tone confident.

The driver hesitated for a second, then finally nodded.

"I need to confirm this."

The "colleague" beat him to it, dialing the phone and handing it over: "Here, Mr. Mendes is waiting online."

The driver took the phone, and Mendes' urgent voice came through the receiver: "Yes, do as they say. There are too many reporters. Don't let Roy get photographed."

He turned off the engine, got out of the car, and followed his "colleague" to another black Mercedes-Benz not far away.

Two minutes later, Roy came out carrying a travel bag.

He glanced at the Mercedes S500 parked in place, confirmed the license plate number was correct, but didn't see Mendes, and couldn't help but frown.

At this moment, the driver quickly came forward: "Mr. Roy, Mr. Mendes has to deal with some urgent documents, so please let us take you to the car first."

He handed over an envelope. "This is your hotel room key and itinerary, which are exactly as we discussed before."

Roy took the envelope and carefully examined the documents inside.

It was indeed the room key to the Presidential Suite at the Lowry Hotel in Manchester, along with a welcome letter bearing the Manchester United crest, detailing the time and place of the upcoming meeting—every detail exactly as Mendes had told him beforehand.

"Mendes said he would go directly to the hotel to meet you."

The driver added, while opening the car door.

Roy glanced at the Mercedes again; it was indeed the car they had agreed upon, and all the documents matched.
But the fact that Mendes wasn't there still made him have a moment of doubt.

Roy stared at the document for a few seconds, then suddenly looked up: "I need to call Mendes first."

The driver's fingers trembled almost imperceptibly, but he still wore a professional smile: "Of course, but we'd better get in the car first and contact you on the way?"

As he spoke, he reached out to take Roy's travel bag.

Roy suddenly gripped the strap tightly.

"Fight now."

Roy's tone left no room for argument, and he had already pulled out his phone with his other hand.

"Of course, but the signal is better in the car."

As he spoke, he took out his phone. "Shall I call Mr. Mendes for you?"

Roy ignored him and dialed Mendes' number directly on his own phone.

However, all I heard from the receiver was a busy tone, and the signal bars were empty; I couldn't make a call at all.

Not far away, inside a gray van, three Russians were intently watching their watches.

One of them muttered a curse: "Damn it, it's past thirty seconds."

The other person immediately pressed the microphone: "Plan B, execute immediately."

Upon seeing this, the driver's forehead broke out in a fine sweat, but he still tried to remain calm: "It's probably signal interference. Let me try."

He quickly dialed a number on his phone, and the screen displayed "Calling Mendes".

Mendes quickly followed the security guard through the crowd, and as he turned the corner, he was suddenly bumped hard by a cleaner pushing a luggage cart.

By the time he regained his balance by leaning against the wall, the security guard who had led the way had long since disappeared.

"Damn it!"

He cursed under his breath, but continued running towards the medical center in Zone B.

I stopped two ground staff members on the street to ask for directions, and finally found the place.

"Is there a Chinese-French person named Roy who is receiving treatment?"

Mendes asked the doctor on duty, panting.

The doctor flipped through the registration form and shook his head: "There is no patient with that name."

He suddenly laughed, "That's the same name as that French football star, haha."

Mendes' face turned ashen instantly. He turned and rushed out of the medical center, jogging all the way back.

As he ran, he pulled out his phone, his fingers flying across the contacts to dial the driver's number.

The number you dialed is temporarily unavailable.

A mechanical female voice came from the receiver.

His pace quickened, eventually turning into a near sprint.

When he ran back to the VIP lane, panting, the spot where the Mercedes S500 had been parked was empty, with only a few fresh tire tracks remaining. The Mercedes slowly drove away from the airport, and Roy saw a black Land Rover following closely behind through the rear window.

The Russian woman next to Roy, who introduced herself as "Katherine Wilson," was explaining the itinerary in fluent Oxford English.

She introduced herself as the head of Mendes' UK office.

Her long, golden-brown hair was elegantly tucked behind her ears. Time had etched a few faint lines at the corners of her eyes, but they only added to her mature charm.

"Jorge specifically instructed that you be taken to the Lowry Hotel to rest for two hours first."

She took a paper itinerary from her leather briefcase.

“Mr. Roy, as arranged by Mr. Mendes,” the woman said, flipping through the schedule, her tone professional yet neutral, “you will meet with Manchester United’s management at 10 a.m. tomorrow. Afterward, Manchester United CEO David Gill will personally accompany you on a tour of the Carrington training ground. Jorge has specifically requested that they open the first team dressing room and the tactical analysis room so that you can have a full understanding of the club’s facilities.”

Her fingers traced lightly across the paper: "At noon, Mendes suggests you accept their lunch invitation at the training facility restaurant."

“At 2 p.m.,” she continued, “Jorge reminds you to pay special attention to the exhibits in the Hall of Fame, which he believes are very helpful for your career planning.”

Finally, she pointed to the end of the schedule: "At 7 p.m., we will have dinner in the boardroom at Old Trafford. Sir Alex Ferguson, Manchester United CEO David Gill, the technical director, the academy director, and the chief scout will all be there. They will explain the club's long-term plans to you in detail."

She gently closed the folder and added, "Mr. Mendes said that such sincerity is rare in the transfer market. He advised me to pay close attention to their player development plan, especially the technical analysis report specifically for your position."

Roy suddenly burst out laughing: "These itineraries are really well-planned, even the timing of the negotiations with Manchester United is so detailed? But Manchester United won't pay your salary, and neither will Mendes. Listen, if I don't reach Mendes within twenty minutes..."

He waved his phone. "If this gets to Scotland Yard, tomorrow's headlines will be interesting."

He looked up at the woman beside him: "Please reintroduce yourself, Miss Catherine Wilson."

The woman was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly chuckled, took off her glasses and wiped them. "Alright, since you insist, Marina Granovskaia. But for now, please call me Catherine."

The Mercedes continued to drive smoothly, but Roy noticed in the rearview mirror that the black Land Rover that had been following them was no longer there.

Roy gazed at her. As a time traveler, he clearly remembered that this woman would later become Chelsea's iron-fisted leader, known to fans as "No-Sister".

Roy agreed to get in the car because he recognized the woman in front of him who called herself "Catherine".

It felt like traveling back to the 1950s and meeting a young Ferguson working as a laborer at the Glasgow docks.

Roy couldn't help but want to see what tricks this future football powerhouse was up to.

Marina Granovska (1975-) is a Russian-Canadian executive and a long-time assistant to Roman Abramovich. During her rise through the ranks, she served as the club's owner's representative (2010), a board member (June 2013), and finally became CEO in 2014, earning her the title of "the most powerful woman in football" from The Times.

She spearheaded transfer negotiations and commercial operations, securing an average of £6000 million in annual sponsorship from Nike, earning her the nickname "Iron Lady" for her tough style. In 2021, she won the Golden Boy Award for Best Club Director, and in 2022, she left the club following a change of ownership, ending her legendary career from personal assistant to the helmsman of a Premier League giant.

Roy said in a flat tone: "You know this is very impolite. To come to see me with a false identity and make up some story about Mendes being the head of the UK office."

Marina smiled slightly and said softly in English, "The ends justify the means."

She tapped the folder with her fingertip, switching back to English: "The Wisdom of Machiavelli".

After hearing Marina quote Machiavelli, Roy's lips curled into a cold smile.

"Those who live by the sword, die by the sword."
"As the Portuguese poet Pessoa wrote, 'Do you know what it means to come to me with such underhanded tactics? It's not just disrespectful, it's risking the entire negotiation. It might be over before we even begin.'"

He narrowed his eyes: "So what is your 'legitimate purpose'?"

"Let me show you what Stamford Bridge can give you that Old Trafford can't."

She suddenly added in slightly broken Chinese: "A good bird chooses a good tree to perch on. Isn't that a more apt saying than European proverbs?"

Marina gently placed the folder on the chair between the two of them: "We know what Manchester United is prepared to offer. To be honest, it's very generous. Sir Alex Ferguson has placed a huge bet on you, and the price they're willing to pay surprises even to us."

"We only ask for one thing: whatever conditions Manchester United ultimately offers, even if you are very satisfied, please give us a chance. We'll negotiate with Chelsea with the same conditions; that's our starting point."

"We could have contacted you in a much simpler way today. But Mr. Abramovich insisted on creating this 'chance encounter' to prove to you that Chelsea is willing to go to even greater lengths than Manchester United in their pursuit of you."

Marina tapped the folder with her finger. "Inside is a handwritten letter from Mr. Abramovich, and a five-year development plan tailored for you by our technical team. No reply is needed now; we just hope you can take it back and take a look."

"This will tell you that Chelsea can now offer the same, or even stronger, competitiveness as Manchester United. Manchester United's glorious history belongs to them, but it has nothing to do with you."

Her voice suddenly took on a sharp edge, “But at Stamford Bridge, everything can be rewritten from the moment you join. You will be the creator of a Chelsea legend, not the inheritor of some great history.”

"We can give you everything Manchester United can give you; but what we can give, such as the opportunity to establish a new dynasty in London, Manchester United can never give you."

"Manchester United signed you primarily to maximize commercial returns, considering factors such as shirt sales, sponsor reactions, and stock price fluctuations—they're not just buying a player, but a commercial symbol. Shirt sales need to increase by at least 30%, the Asian market development plan needs to be launched immediately, and the new advertising shoots for sponsors are already booked until next summer."

“They need you to be the next Beckham, not just the next Cantona. But they made a fundamental mistake by trying to define you using the template of Beckham or Cantona. We are very clear that you are not the next so-and-so, but the first Roy.”

“But we are different. Mr. Abramovich has no interest in commercial plans. He only asks the technical team one question: ‘With him, can we win the Champions League?’ Money is not a problem. Salary, signing fee, agent commission—just ask. Image rights? All yours. Commercial endorsements? As you like. We can even stipulate in the contract: the club will never force you to participate in any commercial activities.”

"Manchester United will tell you to 'be part of the legends,' but their legends are already written in textbooks—Busby Baby, Charlton, Best, Ferguson's Class of '92. You'll always just be 'next.' But here, you're the first. Ten years from now, when people talk about Chelsea's rise, your name will be at the beginning of every story. There's no 'Old Trafford' aura weighing you down, no heavy expectations of being 'Manchester United's number seven.'"

"Stanford Bridge will redefine what greatness is for you."

"So the question is simple: would you rather be a brilliant chapter in someone else's epic, or write a completely new book yourself?"

"Imagine: ten years from now, whose name will be engraved on the statue standing outside Stamford Bridge?"

After hearing this long string of words, Roy's lips unconsciously curled up into a smile.

I have to say, it really gave him a good blowjob.

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest: "I must say, this is the most beautiful recruitment speech I've ever heard."

“I was almost persuaded by you, if I hadn’t known that Abramovich used the same rhetoric to poach Van Nistelrooy last year.”

Marina remained unfazed: "Fanny? We didn't give him such a detailed plan."

She pulled a piece of paper from the folder, "like this one: If you nod, we will immediately terminate the contract of our current number 10 player."

Roy raised an eyebrow: "Who is your number 10 now?"

“That’s not important,” Marina said bluntly. “What’s important is, what size do you want to wear?”

A hint of amusement flashed in Roy's eyes; he knew, of course, that Chelsea's current number 10 was Joe Cole.

That talented midfielder, dubbed the "Stamford Bridge Magician" by the English media.

"Or would you like a completely new number? If you like number 88, we're happy to register it for you; Chinese people consider that number auspicious."

Roy couldn't help but laugh when he heard "88".

He gestured for a pause: "Wait a minute, I need to confirm something first."

Marina handed over her phone without a word; the screen showed that she was dialing Jorge Mendes.

Roy took the phone, a sly smile suddenly spreading across his face. "But how do I know if this Mendes is real or not? We have a code."

The moment the call connected, Mendes's urgent voice boomed: "My God! Where are you? Everyone at Manchester United is here!"

Roy interrupted him, his tone relaxed: "I've already arrived at the hotel, you can just come and meet me."

The person on the other end of the phone was clearly taken aback: "What? But we clearly made an appointment..."

Roy glanced at Marina, a slight smile playing on his lips: "Consider it a surprise."

After saying that, he hung up immediately and handed the phone back.

Marina looked Roy up and down: "Surprise?"

Roy shrugged: "What else? Should I tell him I've been 'kidnapped' by Chelsea?"

Marina put away her phone and looked directly at Roy: "So, what's your decision?"

"At the very least, I'll meet with Mourinho and Abramovich first, and hear what they have to say for themselves. Otherwise, wouldn't it be a waste of this carefully arranged 'chance encounter'?"

A glint of victory flashed in Marina's eyes, but she quickly regained her professional composure: "Of course, they've been waiting for you."

Roy's smile faded, and his eyes suddenly turned serious: "But you all seem to have missed one thing: I never make a decision on the first meeting."

"Whether it's Manchester United or Chelsea, I will carefully weigh the options. To be honest, today's elaborate 'chance encounter' was completely unnecessary."

Marina's expression stiffened slightly, but she quickly recovered: "We just hope to gain the upper hand."

“Listen, I’m not the kind of player who gets swayed by money. This year I won the treble and the European Championship, and I’m the all-time top scorer in both competitions in a single season. Do you know what that means? I have more Champions League trophies than your entire Chelsea team combined.”

"Therefore, in the subsequent negotiations, I hope you can understand that our initial conditions for negotiation are:"

As Roy spoke, he pushed open the car door, one foot on the ground, and turned back to utter the last word:

"Respect."

(End of this chapter)