When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 25: Capital Will Become His Second Stage (Please Read On!)

2003年3月2日，正午12:07。

As the Mercedes-Benz V-Class minivan drove onto the Paris ring road, the sunlight shone like molten gold onto the windshield.

Roy sat in the back of the carriage, with Claire Bertrand opposite him, two contracts spread out on the table.

She leaned slightly forward, her fingertips touching the L'Équipe contract, the nude color of her nails gleaming coldly under the car's interior lights.

“《队报》给出的媒体曝光费报价是2万5000欧元媒体费，外加5000欧元照片版权，封面再加1万5000欧元——总计4万5000欧元。”

A very faint smile curved her lips. "But Mr. Miriam believes this should be a free report."

She paused deliberately for half a second, her blue eyes sweeping over Roy's eyebrows, nose, and lips, searching for any trace of wavering, or waiting for a look of panic, confusion, or greed.

But Roy's facial muscles didn't move at all, and he tapped his knuckles lightly on the table.

"Free is more expensive."

Claire's eyelashes trembled almost imperceptibly; he wasn't fooled.

Her earlobes flushed a pale pink for a moment when Roy said "free is more expensive".

"You calculate faster than Zidane."

She pulled the contract back, drew an asterisk on it, and added as an apology:

"Next time, I will prepare more difficult math problems."

She turned to the second page, her slender fingers tracing a line of small print:
“Alright, L'Équipe must guarantee you three non-negative articles over the next three months. At the same time, Mr. Miliacho requests that L'Équipe 'replace' the advertising space on the day your interview is published.”

"Unfortunately, your sponsor FedCom is willing to pay 20 euros for the advertising space you've acquired in this exchange."

Roy looked up and met Claire's gaze; her eyelashes cast fine shadows on her eyelids.

"45,000 in cash, after tax you will receive a maximum of 22,500."

Her fingertips tapped lightly on the contract, the rhythm like calculating some kind of hidden cost.

"But FedCom paid the 20 euros in advertising swaps directly to the Luxembourg-based 'content partnership company,' with a 5% tax rate, resulting in a net profit of 19 euros."

She leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and the tips of her high heels gently touched the edge of the table.

“Even if Mr. Miglior takes 30%, you will still receive 133,000, which is six times the amount in cash.”

"Would L'Équipe agree?"

Roy's voice was steady, but his Adam's apple bobbed almost imperceptibly; he had settled the score.

Claire chuckled and pulled the pen Roy had seen from her briefcase, its nib hovering over the signature area.

"Of course they will agree."

Her voice was like silk wrapped around a knife's edge.

"Because FedCom's advertising fees are worth more than your interview."

Roy took the pen, his knuckles brushing against her fingertips, a fleeting moment so brief it was almost an illusion.

"So, I get on the cover for free, and they get the advertising for free."

He paused, a slight smile playing on his lips, and joked:
"But FedCom and Miliacho are the ones who are really making money."

Claire blinked gently, her eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings.

“No, Mr. Roy.”

Her voice lowered by an octave, carrying a hint of secret pleasure.

"You're the one who makes the money—133,000 euros, after tax."

Roy's gaze briefly shifted between the contract and Claire, her left hand unconsciously caressing the platinum earring on her earlobe.

My gaze finally settled on the signature section.

He paused for half a second on the pen with his fingertip, then Roy signed his name swiftly.

Claire put away the contract, a satisfied smile playing on her lips.

"I think, barring any unforeseen circumstances, you will win the Ligue 1 title and most likely the Best Young Player award. After that, you'll be on the cover of GQ, following the same logic."

She paused, then added:
"Of course, FedCom will pay another $30."

Roy looked out the window; the Parisian scenery rushed past, and sunlight refracted through the glass curtain wall of the La Défense building.

"So, my image is their ATM."

Roy raised an eyebrow, leaned back in his seat, and spoke softly but clearly.

Of course, he had long understood this principle.

"FedCom's contract is quite simple: a base endorsement fee of €500,000 per year, paid quarterly; an additional €100,000 performance bonus for winning the Ligue 1 title; and an additional €50,000 for the Ligue 1 Best Young Player award."

After Roy signed his name, Claire tucked the contract back into the document bag and lightly pressed her fingertip against the seal.

“No, Mr. Roy.”

She smiled, and this time it was a genuine smile.

"Your image is our nuclear weapon."

Claire closed the folder and added:
“This time, Miriam Joe won’t take a cut.”

She smiled slightly, as if sharing a secret. "He said your first business contract was a 'gift' from him."

Roy's eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly.

"Gift?"

He knew all too well what lay behind the agent's "gift"—Migliaccio would recoup his investment with interest in the next transfer.

Claire seemed to read his mind and chuckled:

"Because your value is far more than this number."

As the car drove past the Arc de Triomphe, Roy suddenly realized:
As long as he continues to win on the field.

His goal was no longer just about winning or losing on the field, but also about zero after the euro symbol.

His face will appear on billboards, in magazines, and even in stock market analysis reports.

His name is becoming a kind of currency.

Claire's voice brought him back to reality: "Tomorrow morning at 10 a.m., FedCom photoshoot. 4 p.m., personal interview."

She handed over a gold-embossed business card with the address of one of Paris's most prestigious private banks printed on it.

"After the shoot, I'll accompany you to open an account. It's time for your money to learn how to make money on its own."

The moment the car stopped felt like the boundary between two worlds.

The Mercedes-Benz V-Class stopped in front of the Hotel Creuil, and the doorman bowed and opened the car door.

The moment Roy stepped out of the car, his left foot seemed to still have bits of grass from the Lille stadium on it, while his right foot was already on the Persian carpet of Crillon.

Claire's voice came from behind, tinged with amusement:
"Welcome to Paris, Mr. Roy."

"Some people here talk about football, and some people talk about more than just football; they talk about the value of football."

The following day, at 10:05 a.m., Brimarn Film Studios, on the banks of the Marne River in the eastern suburbs of Paris.

A black Mercedes-Benz V-Class stopped at the entrance of the film set. Roy got out of the car, and the sunlight shone directly on his brow bone, causing him to squint.

As he entered the film set, Claire followed him about 1.2 meters to his right.

This distance represents the limit of social etiquette; it's neither appropriate for an assistant nor a partner.

For every two steps he took, she took three; their strides in high heels were precisely calculated.

She deliberately placed herself in his shadow, but the faint scent of figs always lingered at his breathing level.

There were several people standing in front.

Claire took a half step forward, keeping her voice at a decibel level that only he could hear.

“Three o’clock, gray suit. Philip Lecter, Global Marketing Director at FedCom, has approved your ‘barefoot run’ idea.”

He was in his fifties, short and stocky like an oak barrel, his Armani three-piece suit stretched taut over his belly.

"The woman wearing headphones at nine o'clock is director Claire Denis, who directed Jean-Luc Godard's advertisements and hates actors improvising."

Claire Denis is as thin as a knife, her skeleton encased in a men's shirt.

Her voice was like the bubbles on the rim of a champagne glass, light yet with the sharpness of alcohol:
50 euros.

"Your 'barefoot creativity' prompted FedCom to temporarily allocate an additional 35 euros to its budget, plus another 15 euros, for your creativity."

As Roy turned around, he caught a glimpse of the expression on her face that she hadn't quite managed to conceal—her left eyebrow was slightly higher than her right, and a fleeting dimple appeared at the corner of her lips.

"Looks like."

She suddenly took half a step forward, and the scent of her perfume intensified, with a fig base note mixed with a hint of victorious spiciness.

The eyelashes cast spiderweb-like shadows in the sunlight, just enough to conceal the scheming in the depths of the eyes.

"You are not only a genius on the football field."

Roy turned around, his gaze sweeping across the film set.

On the left is a dismantled Boeing 747 wing with the FedCom logo painted on it.

On the right, a group of extras are wearing Monaco jerseys, but with FEDCOM25 printed on the back.

Claire whispered behind him, "Your 'teammates' are students at the Paris Dramatic Arts Institute; they earn 120 euros an hour. So, don't actually kick the ball in their faces."

"The advertising shoot requires you to run and play football, and Legal & General will be responsible for your ankles during this shoot."

Roy frowned. She stood behind him, her perfume swirling around him like an invisible contract.

He suddenly realized that he couldn't even tell whether her words were a compliment or some kind of more subtle manipulation.

He doesn't like this feeling.

He cannot rely on his instincts on the court to fight against this unfamiliar battlefield.

Perhaps there are two kinds of true football stars: one who chases the ball, and one who chases the trajectory of the ball's movement. Roy must learn to become the latter.

Capital will become his second home ground.

I glanced at the reading trending times and decided to change the update time to 2 PM. As I wrote, I'm constantly learning and researching, trying my best to recreate the operating logic of the real football world. This novel isn't exactly a typical sports novel; in fact, it can be viewed as a historical fiction, only its main focus is football.

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(End of this chapter)