I revived the Demonic Sect in North America

Chapter 161 Boosting Morale

"This is not a tip."

"6

Li Ang interrupted her.

He looked into her eyes, his voice softening slightly: "It's a gift from a friend. Nothing more. Take it, and buy yourself a few more decent shirts."

Salia's face turned even redder.

The tips of her ears were stained pink.

She thought Li Ang was disgusted by her always wearing the same old shirts and thought she was shabby.

An unbearable heat rushed up to my head.

She opened her mouth, wanting to explain something, but was speechless for a moment.

Looking at her flushed face and the embarrassment in her eyes, Li Ang suddenly smiled.

There was no mockery in that smile; instead, it carried a rare gentleness: "Pink is beautiful and suits you very well. However, I am indeed looking forward to seeing you in a different outfit next time I come. Consider it satisfying a friend's curiosity."

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Salia suddenly looked up at Li Ang.

The boy in front of me had a handsome face, clear eyes, and a smile on his lips.

Salia felt her heart beating a little fast, almost echoing in the quiet shop.

My cheeks also became burning hot.

The fingers gripping the calculator tightened slightly.

Having run this shop for many years, she has seen all sorts of people and has long since developed a hardened heart and a calm mind.

But at this moment, in front of this boy who was much younger than her, she was as flustered as a little girl receiving a gift for the first time.

"I—I—"

She hesitated, looking at the stack of banknotes, unsure whether to accept them or not.

Finally, avoiding Li Ang's gaze, she quickly pushed the stack of money under the counter.

Her voice was so low it was almost inaudible: "—Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Li Ang picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder: "Goodbye."

"Okay, goodbye, Mr. Li."

Salia lowered her head and gave a perfunctory reply.

She even forgot to see him to the door as usual.

Li Ang's figure disappeared outside the door as soon as the wind chimes rang again.

Salia slowly raised her head.

Her fingers unconsciously traced her burning cheeks.

She walked up to the full-length mirror and looked at herself in the mirror, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling.

The pink shirt he was wearing, which he had worn for several years and was now somewhat faded from washing, seemed to be a bit outdated.

Friday morning, in the River Valley College rugby team's locker room.

Coach Duke stood in the middle of the locker room.

-

He unconsciously twirled the red marker in his hand.

The pen cap tapped against the shiny whiteboard, making a thumping sound.

The buzzing murmurs below gradually subsided with the sound of the knocking.

More than forty pairs of eyes turned to look at him.

He stopped twirling his pen and glanced around.

His gaze swept over the young faces.

They were either nervous or excited.

The final image focuses on Bruce.

Bruce's right shoulder and arm were wrapped in thick white bandages.

It was secured to the chest with a gray suspender strap.

Coach Duke took a deep breath.

That breath seemed to be trying to expel all the hesitation from my lungs.

He then spoke, his voice deeper than usual: "Alright, all of you, listen up, boys. This afternoon, our opponents are the Falcons from Trinity College. Those pampered soldiers who've been receiving private training since they could walk."

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He paused, a deep frown forming between his brows.

As if chewing on something bitter: "Now, I have some bad news to tell you upfront."

His gaze returned to Bruce, his voice thickening with suppressed emotion: "Bruce, in the last game, you ripped your left shoulder labrum from that collision. The team doctor, and the sports medicine specialist we brought in from the city, both carefully examined the X-rays. Their conclusion was unanimous: surgery, immediately. Conservative treatment would require at least six weeks of rest, and the risk of re-injury is extremely high."

6

He swept the team's attention across the court, making sure everyone heard him clearly: "So, for Bruce's future career, for the sake of his future opportunities to play in college and even further, he can't play today. This is my final decision."

6

A soft clanging sound.

I don't know whose shin guards fell to the ground.

Apart from that, the locker room was deathly silent.

Even the sound of breathing seemed to be cut off.

All eyes, as if drawn by invisible threads, were fixed on Bruce.

Sympathy, worry, disbelief.

But more than anything, there is a sudden sense of bewilderment and emptiness.

It's like having your mainsail suddenly pulled off during a voyage; the ship instantly loses direction and power.

Bruce sat there, his back ramrod straight, almost stiffly.

His right arm, bandaged, hung limply in front of him.

His left fist was clenched tightly, his knuckles turning white.

He felt those gazes, like needles pricking his skin.

He suddenly raised his head.

His face flushed red with excitement and a strong sense of humiliation.

"I'm fine, Coach!"

'

He tried to pat his bandaged right chest with his uninjured left hand, the movement was quick and violent.

It immediately aggravated the deep wound.

A sharp, intense pain contorted his face.

The corner of his mouth twitched uncontrollably.

But he stubbornly held his neck and swallowed back the cry of pain.

He stared stubbornly at the Duke coach, his eyes bloodshot: "It's just—it's just a minor injury! I can play! Give me a painkiller injection, wrap the bandages tight, and I—"

Coach Duke roared like an enraged bull: "What the hell are you good for! What the hell are you good for!"

"6

He took two steps and stood in front of Bruce.

He was tall and imposing, and his gaze was so intense that his shadow almost completely enveloped Bruce, who was sitting there.

The outstretched finger was only an inch from Bruce's nose.

He trembled slightly from extreme anger and another, deeper emotion.

His facial muscles twitched, and the veins on his neck bulged: "You think I don't want to win? Huh? Bruce! I fucking dream about it! I'm itching to do it! I want to completely crush those arrogant bastards at Trinity, those who think the whole world should revolve around them! I want to trample their shiny boots with our muddy legs!"

'

He roared, spittle flying everywhere.

The sound echoed in the narrow locker room, making one's eardrums ache.

But his tone abruptly shifted, his voice still loud, but now tinged with an almost heartbroken hoarseness: "But Bruce! Look at yourself! You're only seventeen! Your life has just begun! You still have college, a potentially bright future, and countless games waiting for you! I absolutely cannot, for this damn game today, ruin your shoulder! I cannot let you be unable to even hold a football properly in the future! I cannot let your mother shed tears because of your old injuries and prematurely ending your career!"

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He bent down, almost face to face with Bruce.

The anger in his eyes was replaced by something deeper and more complex.

It was a coach's responsibility towards the player, a senior's concern for a junior, mixed with a tremendous sense of powerlessness: "You're not some little kid in kindergarten who would throw a tantrum over a piece of candy anymore! Can't you be a little more mature and think like a man?! This is your body, your future, your career! It's not a fucking video game where you can die and start over! Understand?!"

"6

Bruce was completely stunned by his barrage of angry roars.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Only heavy, unsteady breathing.

Her face flushed red and then turned pale.

Half of it was the stubborn, excruciating pain in his shoulder that constantly reminded him of his helplessness.

The other half is the fear of not being able to play and the fear of dragging the team down.

He wanted to yell back, to prove he wasn't afraid, to shoulder everything like a tough guy.

But it felt like there was a wad of water-soaked cotton stuffed in his throat, hot and blocked, making him feel like he was choking.

Under the watchful eyes of the Duke coach, eyes that seemed to spit fire yet concealed a deep sense of helplessness, all his bravado crumbled.

The air in the locker room seemed to have solidified into cement, pressing heavily on everyone's chests and making it hard to breathe.

The other team members were either staring intently at the ground beneath their feet, as if they could see something amazing in it.

Or stare blankly at a small piece of paint that has peeled off the ceiling.

They either fidget nervously, making subtle rubbing sounds.

Nobody dared to look at the coach, and nobody dared to look at Bruce.

Losing Bruce, the strongest cornerstone on both offense and defense, and facing a behemoth like Trinity College.

The difficulty of this match was like a boulder that kept getting heavier, pressing heavily on everyone's hearts.

The excitement of being carried by Li Ang and Bruce in the last game was also crushed.

Despair and helplessness, like a cold tide, spread silently.

Just then, a very soft, calm cough broke the suffocating silence.

It's Li Ang.

He leaned against his metal locker, his head slightly lowered, as if lost in thought.

Only then did he raise his head and let out that almost inaudible cough.

But in this environment where you could hear a pin drop, the sound was like a pebble thrown into a deep pool, clearly creating ripples.

Almost simultaneously, Coach Duke and Bruce abruptly turned their heads to look at the source of the sound.

Coach Duke's chest was still heaving violently, and the bulging veins on his forehead had not subsided.

But that overwhelming, violent momentum inexplicably paused and softened for a moment because of Li Ang's calm gaze.

Bruce seemed to be paused as well, his face flushed, tears still clinging to his eyes, staring blankly at Li Ang.

His eyes held the same confusion and bewilderment a drowning person would feel when looking at driftwood.

Li Ang straightened up from beside the cold iron cabinet.

His movements were unhurried, even carrying a slight soreness and relaxation from training.

He walked between the Duke coach and Bruce.

His gaze didn't fall on the still agitated coach, but calmly settled on Bruce's eyes, which were filled with resentment and panic.

Li Ang spoke, his voice low, even gentle: "Bruce, you rest this game, don't play."

Strangely, it possessed a peculiar penetrating power and a sense of security, instantly capturing everyone's attention.

Bruce seemed stung by those words, instinctively retorting, his voice trembling with resentment and a sob: "But Li Ang, I—"

'

My left hand unconsciously gripped the edge of the bench.

Li Ang interrupted him, his tone lacking the forcefulness of a command, but possessing an undeniable certainty: "No buts."

He leaned forward slightly, bringing his line of sight to that of Bruce, who was sitting down.

Those dark eyes were like bottomless pools, clearly reflecting Bruce's current disheveled state.

Yet, strangely, there was no judgment, only a calm statement: "Your shoulder isn't just yours. It's part of the River Valley Cavaliers' future offense. We won this game, and the next, the game after that, the playoffs, we need a healthy, energetic Bruce Harper, standing beside me, standing among our brothers."

He paused for a moment, seemingly giving Bruce some time to process it.

Looking into Bruce's eyes, the flame of anxiety, defiance, and dependence still flickered and struggled.

He raised his voice slightly, but his calm tone remained unchanged: "Don't you believe me, Bruce? Don't you believe I can lead everyone on the field to bring this victory back to you and everyone else in a beautiful way?"

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This sentence seems to possess some kind of peculiar magic, or like a precise key.

Bruce stared blankly at Li Ang.

The Eastern face before me remained calm and undisturbed.

There was no passionate outburst, no furious outburst.

There is only one kind of composure and confidence deeply ingrained in one's bones.

These are the eyes that have witnessed those incredible bursts of energy on the training field.

This is the man who, in the team's most desperate moment, shouldered everything like a god of war.

A strange, almost blind sense of trust, like warm spring water, welled up in Li Ang's calm gaze.

It gradually extinguished the flames of anxiety in Bruce's heart and smoothed out the wrinkles of his resentment.

Bruce took a deep, forceful breath.

My nostrils were filled with the familiar smells of sweat, disinfectant, and leather from the locker room.

He abruptly closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he blinked hard to wipe away the remaining moisture from his eyes.

He raised his head, met Li Ang's gaze, and nodded heavily, one nod after another.

His voice was hoarse from suppressing his emotions, but there was no longer any hesitation or struggle: "I believe you, brother. Of course I fucking believe you."

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Li Ang didn't say anything, but simply stretched out his right hand and patted Bruce's intact left shoulder firmly.

Then, he straightened up and slowly turned around.

He faced all his teammates in the locker room, some looking dejected, some solemn, and some with flickering eyes.

His gaze, like a slowly moving searchlight, calmly swept across every young face.

His gaze lingered briefly on the faces of several newlyweds whose eyes were darting away.

The veteran team members nodded in agreement, their teeth clenched.

Finally, he glanced at Jack Davis, who was standing in the corner with his arms crossed and expressionless, paused for half a second, and then looked away.

Li Ang spoke, his voice still not loud: "Did you all hear what the coach said?"

'

But in the silent locker room, every word struck clearly like a hammer blow to everyone's heart: "Bruce, you won't be playing today."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle fully.

Then he continued, his tone carrying an almost cold clarity and resolute certainty: "So what? Is the sky going to fall? Will those gold-and-silver-clad young masters of Trinity automatically line up and present us with the victory sash just because Bruce isn't here? Or will the referee take pity on us and declare the game over, counting us as the winner?"

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No one answered.

Only heavy breathing could be heard.

But more and more heads were raised.

More and more eyes shifted from the bewildered ground and focused on Li Ang.

There was resentment and doubt in it.

But more than anything, it's a spark that's been ignited after being cornered by difficulties.