When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 22 Only sufficiently massive celestial bodies can be tidally locked (Please read on!)

Le Duc restaurant in Paris.

Alain Migliaccio sat in his usual spot during his visits, an unlit Davidoff cigar in one hand and a Nokia 8910 phone in the other, looking quite animated.

"I've received many calls about you."

After a day of training, Roy held his phone around his neck as he lay face down on the treatment bed in the physiotherapy room, his knees passively bent at a 90-degree angle.

Club physiotherapist Yannick Guiomey is planning to perform a myofascial release on him.

"Sir, I'm sorry, I have some personal matters to attend to."

Roy smiled politely, but hesitated to speak.

Giomey nodded, paused his application of the freezing spray, and walked out of the treatment room.

“Listen, kid, you’re not a player right now, but you could become the Troy Helen of the football world this summer.”

"Any idea what this means?"

Roy frowned; he didn't like the analogy.

“Many people have called me, many people have mentioned your name, many people want to know about you, and they all want to know what you can do next season. These people don’t care about taking your money. If they’re sure you’re the person they need, they just want to know how much salary they need to pay you each year.”

Miriam took a sip of champagne, and the condensation on the glass ran down his thumbprint.

"Their only thing in common is that they are all powerful figures in the world of football."

Roy didn't speak, but listened quietly, though he subconsciously rubbed his brow with the pad of his thumb.

Every time Miliacho spoke, the name of a prestigious club would pop into his mind.

"Alessandro Moggi, but you'd better learn to swear at the referee in Italian first!"

Juventus.

"Moratti asked you how much salary you wanted per year? Cooper said that as long as you score one goal per game, you don't have to participate in defense. But Ronaldo just left, and Vieri is looking for new friends, so it's best not to mess with him!"

Inter Milan.

"Milan? You can partner with Shevchenko, Maldini will be keeping an eye on you, he's a good captain. Berlusconi's price is Inter's price, plus a Ferrari!"

AC Milan.

"Ferguson has a bad temper. Do you want to go to Carrington and experience being tackled by Neville? Nike might be willing to make you a signature shoe, but you'll only be as tall as Beckham's chest on the poster."

Manchester United.

"Wenger, his new stadium is under construction. I heard you defeated Shabani Nonda at the Stade Louis II. Do you have the confidence to replicate that feat and defeat Henry as well? After Highbury is demolished, he will be a king who has lost his country!"

Arsenal.

"Hoeneß is a shrewd man. Effenberg has retired, and now Kahn is the locker room leader, but before you can tolerate his temper, you have to learn to train in the freezing cold."

Bayern Munich.

"Newcastle? The only good thing is that there's only one team in the city, and everyone who drinks Newcastle brown beer will support you."

Newcastle.

"Valencia did make the call, but I'm not sure how much money they have left in their accounts? Maybe eight million euros? They need to sell Baraja or Aimar first to free up salary space for you. They're out of the game now."

Valencia.

Miriamio sensed the long silence on the other end of the phone and assumed Roy was speechless with shock at the names on the other end.

He suddenly realized that he wanted a response.

The silence on the other end of the phone was more unbearable than any negotiation.

His platinum ring on his little finger tapped incessantly against the champagne glass, the rhythm mirroring the hesitation on the other end of the phone.

"This is not pressure, it is gravity. Only celestial bodies that are heavy enough will be tidally locked."

He tried to comfort her.

When Miliacho looked at the wine list for the third time, the sommelier silently pointed towards the cellar, a hint that "there are better options here."

The thought of understanding Roy suddenly popped into his mind.

Miliacho smiled with relief: "Mr. Perez said that if we wait another year, the Bernabéu will be your stage."

Roy chuckled softly.

"It sounds like you're playing an Odysseus in this story."

Finally, a response came from the other end of the phone; the eighteen-year-old's voice was steady and clear.

"Helen's fate was to be taken back to Sparta and become a decorative figure in the epic."

Miliajo was stunned: "I apologize!"

"So I will make you Achilles, both coveted and unattainable by anyone."

After hanging up the phone, a confident smile appeared on his face. Miliacho looked up and gazed at the corner to his left.

Three men in bespoke suits, one of whom is meticulously shucking an oyster with a silver knife; his tie clip bears the emblem of the French Ministry of Finance.

Their fragmented conversation drifted over: "EU subsidies. Fisheries quotas."

Outside the glass window, the lights of the cruise ships on the Seine cast flowing golden ripples on the window, like constantly updated transfer bids.

Miliacho turned her head to look at the wall.

A photo of Zidane celebrating the Ballon d'Or here in 1998 hangs right in front of his line of sight.

In the photo, a young Zidane is holding a wine glass, while Miliacho is now holding the same glass, trying to create the next legend.

"Achilles is not a good omen in the world of football."

Roy put down the phone, rubbed his ankle, and gave a mocking smile as he muttered to himself.

He disliked those nonsensical Greek myths.

If you could only choose one name from the Greek world.

He hoped it would be: Alexander.

February 25, 2003, La Tilby Training Center, Monaco, 8:00 a.m., the frost and fog had not yet dissipated.

Strength and conditioning coach Antonio Pintus's metallic whistle rang out sharply in the cold air, like a bullet piercing through ice.

Roy, dressed in winter training gear, exhaled white steam. During their morning run, the team was divided into three groups, each with a different pace; Roy was assigned to the highest intensity group, the "Black Group."

Gallardo, panting heavily, cursed as he ran, "Pintus! Is that pace set for the track and field team?! We're football players, not marathon runners!"

Pintus shouted with a sneer from the sidelines, "Rothen, you're about to fall a lap behind!"

Rothen immediately turned pale and clutched his ribs.

"If I suddenly die, can the club afford to compensate me?"

Pintus pulled out a stopwatch: "You're 3 seconds away from reaching the target before you die suddenly."

There's a penalty system for morning runs: anyone who falls behind by one lap must do an extra 20 "Pintus push-ups"—the moment their hands leave the ground, Pintus will lightly step on their back with their feet to ensure their core is engaged.

"11 vs 11 competition! The losing team has to clean all the team's shin guards!"

Assistant coach Petit stood on the sidelines shouting, looking at the two team lineups behind his steel sunglasses, and suddenly said, "Roy, go to the second team!"

Deschamps was initially surprised, then a smile appeared on his lips as he turned to Petit: "Want to see if he can win with a 'low-budget' lineup?"

Rothen gave a thumbs-up, looked at Roy, who was wearing a yellow vest and walking towards the second team, and grinned as if to slit his throat.

"Kid! Have you thought about how I'm going to get past you?"

Roy raised his eyebrows, squinted, and spread his right hand to his ear.

"Think about it!"

When Roy said that with a smile.

Rothen spread his legs wide to defend, Roy twisted with his right foot and gently pushed with his left.

The ball went precisely through Rothen's legs.

Rothen's face flushed red: "You little brat! Do you think this is street football?!"

The second breakthrough.

Roy pretended to go to the byline, then suddenly stopped and cut inside. Rothen was propelled three meters away by inertia and staggered to his knees.

He pointed to his knee: "Coach! This kid's using superhuman acceleration!"

Deschamps yelled from the sidelines: "Then defend like an inhuman."

Next round.

Rothen grabbed Roy's training shirt and was immediately shown a yellow card by Petit on the sidelines.

The third breakthrough.

Roy got more and more into it, catching a pass in mid-air with his heel while running, and then flicking the ball over the top. As Rothen turned around, he was shoved down hard by Roy who darted past him.

"Kid! If you keep playing like this, I'll break your legs in the next practice match!"

Rothen was thoroughly exasperated and somewhat furious.

Roy smiled: "Then I'll pass you ten times first."

Ten minutes later, Rothen shouted at Deschamps:

"Coach! This kid doesn't understand what a 'training match' is at all! He's playing like it's a Champions League final!"

Giuly ran past, patted Rothen on the backside, and mocked, "You've never played in a Champions League final!"

"Kick it now, I don't want to wash my shin guards."

Welcome to the senior team!

Giuly, Rothen, and others, who were forced by Deschamps to wash their shin guards, deliberately sought revenge.

The water in the ice bucket burst open, and Roy's strong body supported him as he suddenly lifted his head from the icy water, like an enraged whale crashing through the frozen sea.

His soaked black hair clung to his forehead, with shards of ice still clinging to the ends, reflecting a cold light under the overhead lights of the training base.

"Fuck you, you bunch of sore losers!"

The vocal cords became hoarse from the cold, like the texture of a vinyl record being suddenly scratched.

Wrapped in a bath towel, Juli shivered as he stepped into the ice bucket beside him, his smile twisted by the cold: "Damn, this kid's mouth isn't as sharp as his feet; even his insults sound like he's reciting love poems!"

Pulso took out his phone to take a picture: "Selling it to L'Équipe can earn me a year's worth of barbecue."

Rothen suddenly tried to push Roy into the ice water with his arm, but Roy nimbly leaned back to avoid it, which immediately drew even more fierce curses.

"You know what, this kid looks a bit like Keanu Reeves."

Roy's great-grandmother was French, and his grandmother seemed to have Italian ancestry. In any case, he was too lazy to calculate the exact proportions of his bloodline, but his facial features did indeed have some mixed-race characteristics.

Rotten pinched his chin and examined it carefully, then laughed and teased, "NIO, when will you become THE ONE?"

"Hahahahahaha."

The icy water was bone-chilling, but Roy's thoughts suddenly became unusually clear.

He climbed out of the ice bucket, sat down beside it, and slowly exhaled a puff of white mist, watching it dissipate in the cold air as his gaze swept across every corner of the room.

Giuly was drying his wet hair with a towel, Max was leaning against the wall panting, Rothen was cursing and throwing a few more ice cubes into the ice bucket, and Pulso was grinning, waving an unopened sports drink in his hand, as if he was ready to celebrate something at any moment.

They were no longer strangers to each other, but a group of madmen, a group of warriors.

The names of those big clubs that came through the phone—Juventus, Milan, Bayern Munich, Manchester United—suddenly became distant and blurry, as if viewed through a thick layer of frosted glass.

But the group of guys in front of me, soaking wet and cursing, seemed incredibly real.

"If I want to leave..."

A crazy idea suddenly popped into Roy's mind.

Is that right? I mean...

We also need to work with them to overturn Europe first.

A cruel smile appeared on his lips, which were still damp with water droplets.

Roy cannot see his own eyes.

But at that moment, perhaps he did indeed replicate the tension Keanu Reeves displayed in the rain scene in The Matrix.

However, what flashed in his eyes was not code, but an ambition to trample the world underfoot.

(End of this chapter)