When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 40 To become king, you must first choose your battlefield (Please read on!)
"Roy, listen."

"Don't go back to Monaco yet. The Italian fashion magazine MAX is holding its 18th anniversary celebration. I've already flown to Milan and will accompany you to the event. This is very important to you."

Roy tucked his phone between his shoulder and neck, fastening his shirt cuffs as he walked toward the door: "Listen, Miko (Miliajo)."

The moment he called his agent by his nickname, Miriam Joel's breath hitched noticeably.

“The red carpet at MAX won’t help me get past the Nice defender.”

On the other end of the phone, Miliacho's voice carried the shrewdness and urgency typical of an agent: "Roy, all the bigwigs in Italian football will be showing up at the MAX celebration. I can handle Deschamps."

"Do not."

Roy interrupted him, and after confirming that nothing serious was happening, stood still to answer the call, "Monaco needs me."

The female reporter leaned against the sofa: "Missed the opportunity to socialize with Vieri and Del Piero?"

She smiled slightly, her red lips curving upwards. "I can walk the red carpet with you."

Roy glanced at her.

Milaccio is still pushing: "Listen, an 18-year-old Zidane didn't have that kind of exposure!"

“Mico, I said I wanted to make sure I could win the Ligue 1 title.”

Roy chuckled softly; this was the decision.

In a three-second vacuum, Migliorgio suddenly realized: what came through the receiver was not the stubbornness of a young man, but the decisiveness of a star player, more mature, more opinionated, and more sharp than Zidane at 18.

After a long silence on the other end of the phone, Miriam loosened his tie and muttered, "Damn. The way he just talked was like a 22-year-old Maradona scolding Coppola."

He put down his phone; the new phone only had one number saved—Roy's.

The assistant knocked cautiously on the door: "Sir, the event coordinator for MAX magazine is still waiting for your reply."

Miriam took a deep breath and straightened his tie.

When he spoke again, his voice had regained its usual shrewdness and composure: "Tell them that, unfortunately, Roy has chosen to fight for Monaco."

He paused, a complex smile playing on his lips. "But this is fine too. Contact the reporters we have at L'Équipe, and the new press release will be titled 'Monaco's New King Rejects Gilding, Chooses Battlefield.'"

When Roy walked across the training ground's grass, the entire Monaco training ground seemed to be silenced.

Giuly was the first to break the silence, whistling, "My God, our kid is a national team hero now!"

The French winger raised his eyebrows. "I should have insisted on participating in the last training camp. Rothen actually made such a big splash."

Squillaci walked over, shaking his head, and looked Roy up and down as if appraising an antique: "Four goals, one assist. Seriously, did you sell your soul to the devil?"

"That's way too cheap!" Juli teased.

"Hey!"

Gallardo's booming voice echoed across the training field as the Argentine roughly grabbed Roy by the neck, shouting, "Now it's your turn to take down Zidane! From now on, we'll be the golden duo of France's number 10 and Argentina's number 10!"

Roy raised an eyebrow: "Do you think you're Argentina's number 10?"

"I think I am."

Gallardo's confident reply drew laughter from those around him.

Evra hesitated before sidling up, and after hearing that Roy had just joined the national team and then beaten Wiltord, he was now glad he hadn't stood up for Shabani back then: "Bro, you're awesome."

"You're not bad either."

Roy casually agreed, but still exchanged a few pleasantries with Evra, patting his arm affectionately.

Having witnessed the undercurrents of disorder in the locker room, Roy decided to start cultivating his own "young and promising" forces in advance, in addition to contacting and interacting more with young national team players such as Govou and Cissé.

There's also strategic-level social networking: locking in the core of the future.

These are young people who haven't made it into the national team yet, but may make it in the future.

If a disagreement arises in the future, you can simply say, "Oh dear, my brothers have really caused me a lot of trouble!"

Then the enemy is in Clairefontaine!

Henry couldn't stand Old Bitden's bossy attitude.
He just regretted not being the one to boss people around, and so did Roy.

Then he looked past the crowd and landed on the silent figure not far away.

Abidal stood there, like a steadfast mountain.

This usually taciturn defender revealed a rare smile, his simple face appearing exceptionally sincere in the sunlight.

As Roy approached, he said only one sentence, his voice soft but each word clear:

“I watched that game, Roy, you’re a miracle player.”

These words were like a stone thrown into a calm lake, and Roy smiled and nodded.

Because everyone knows that Abidal never makes polite remarks.

April 5, 2003, Ligue 1, Round 31.

Monaco will host Nice.

“I’m so proud of you, kid.”

Deschamps' voice was as deep and precise as a tactical explanation in the locker room.

"But I need you to rest on the bench for this game. The championship race is in its final sprint, and we need you to stay healthy."

With seven rounds remaining in the league, Monaco leads the standings with a 57-point advantage.

Lyon, having played one more game, are tied for second place with 57 points, followed by Marseille with 55 points, Bordeaux with 51 points, Sochaux with 49 points, and Guingamp with 48 points.
"Shabani starts."

Shabani sat in front of the locker and nodded mechanically.

His locker was still closer to the center of the locker room than Roy's; this once-glorious symbol of his central position now resembled an ironic tombstone. The reaction in the locker room when Deschamps announced his starting position was like a silent film.

Giuly whistled off-key, Evra pretended to tie his shoelaces and looked down to hide his expression, while Roy simply wiped his shoes calmly without even raising an eyebrow.

What stung him most was Roy's reaction.

There were no insincere blessings, no hypocritical encouragement, and not even the victor's pity.

That utter indifference made him realize that in the eyes of this lion cub, he was no longer a worthy opponent, but merely a stumbling block to be kicked aside.

"Giuly cuts inside! Suddenly unleashes a shot from outside the box—! The Nice goalkeeper fumbles the save, but the defender clears it first! Monaco's attack continues."

"Pulso's long-range shot! It was powerful, but it grazed the crossbar and went out of play! Nice's defense was very well organized today."

Giuly scratched his head in frustration, and after Pulso's long-range shot missed, he turned around and kicked the grass hard.

"Gallardo's free kick! Rounding the wall, heading straight for the top corner—but the goalkeeper tips it away with one hand! Monaco's attacks came in waves, but they always fell short of the final strike."

Gallardo knelt down, clenched his fists, and pounded the ground in frustration.

"Shabani takes a long-range shot! It's blocked by the defender!"

"Shabani heads the ball! The goalkeeper catches it securely!"

"Bernardi makes a run! Long shot—it goes wide!"

In the stands, a little girl wearing a Monaco number 25 jersey tugged at her father's sleeve: "Daddy, where's Roy? Why wasn't he the one shooting?"

"Pulso unleashed a beautiful left-footed volley, but the goalkeeper made a diving save! Monaco had a lot of shots today, but Nice's defense was rock solid."

Canal+ commentator said:
"Deschamps' expression on the sidelines grew increasingly impatient. Monaco's attacks repeatedly failed to break through, and the fans began to show signs of disappointment."

"Shabani gets a shot on target again! But the goalkeeper makes the save! This is Monaco's eighth shot saved in the first half!"

In the Nice fan section, the young man who had been splashed with beer during the Malta match was wearing a Nice scarf and was quickly recognized by the surrounding Monaco fans: "You're a fucking Nice fan?!"

The young man shrugged: "Is there a problem? I'm French, and I'm from Nice. I won't cheer for Roy's goal today, but I'm still happy for him."

The camera cuts to the sidelines:

Rothen leaned against the sunshade of the substitutes' bench, nudged Roy's shoulder with his elbow, and wore his usual roguish smile: "I told you we can't do without our 'National Team Monaco Duo'!"

He emphasized the word "we".

"Roy sat on the bench, initially chatting and laughing with Rothen, but as the game progressed, his expression grew increasingly serious."

In the die-hard supporters' section, several Roy fans had already started chanting, "Deschamps! Substitute Roy!"

"Fans started raising Roy's banners! More and more 'ROI 25' banners were being waved in the stands of the Stade Louis II!"

Each time he returned empty-handed, Shabani's expression grew increasingly numb.

Until one day, after a forced breakthrough that resulted in him being brought down, he lay on the grass, looking at the lights on the roof of the Stade Louis II, and suddenly laughed. It was a laugh that was both a sense of relief and despair.

He realized that his era would never return.

The microphones in the commentary booth were almost shattered by the excited shouts:

"Ten minutes into the second half, Roy is still sitting on the bench!"

The commentator's voice trembled with disbelief, "Is this still the decisive Deschamps we know?"

The camera panned back to Roy, who stood with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on the court.

Deschamps stood in the technical area, his back to him, as if deliberately avoiding the gaze that seemed to burn through the back of his head.

"Roy's been in incredibly good form lately!"

The commentator continued his roar, "If someone asked me right now, 'Who is the best 18-year-old player in the world?' I wouldn't hesitate at all, it would be Roy!"

In the stands, the die-hard Monaco supporters were already restless, with some waving flags bearing Roy's huge image.

“If someone asks me again, ‘Who is the best player we can find in this stadium right now?’ I still won’t hesitate to say it’s Roy!”

The commentator was practically yelling into the microphone, "Come on, Deschamps! There's no 5-0 scoreboard in front of you to wait patiently!"

"Monaco has a corner kick opportunity! The corner kick is taken! Squillaci leaps to challenge for the header! But Nice's center-back clears the ball with a header!"

The sighs of Monaco fans receded like a tide, replaced by a chorus of chants: "ROI! ROI! ROI!"

On the bench, Roy's smile had long since vanished, and his fingers were unconsciously tapping the armrest of his seat, the rhythm quickening.

The camera captured Roy suddenly standing up, striding towards Deschamps, and patting him on the arm.

"Roy got up! He walked over to Deschamps! He patted the coach's arm, indicating that it was time for him to go on the field!"

The commentator excitedly shouted, "Monaco's miracle son has volunteered to play!"

The camera freezes on the frame:

Roy stood on the sidelines, his eyes sharp as knives.

When the fourth official raised the electronic board, and the bright red "25" shone brightly in the night, the roar from the stands exploded like a tsunami!

"ROI——!!!ROI——!!!"

The die-hard Monaco fans in the stands jumped up instantly, their red scarves waving wildly like boiling lava.

The moment Roy stepped onto the pitch, the roar of the entire stadium rose again! Drums, whistles, and stomping mingled together as he smiled and walked toward Shabani, who was coming off the field. After giving him a high-five, he jogged past him, his eyes fixed intently ahead.

The Nice goalkeeper wiped his gloves, his expression turning serious.
The commentator exclaimed, "The young genius of the Stade Louis II is back, and now he only has victory in his eyes!"

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A friend mentioned that the agent will definitely be changed before the transfer, but if it involves a key plot twist, it cannot be changed for the time being; just treat him as a tool.

(End of this chapter)