When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 28 The Fated Champion (Please continue reading!)

Romy's slice of strawberry cake was crooked and uneven, with a corner of the cream collapsed, but her eyes sparkled as she held up the plate and shouted, "For brother!"

Roy took the plate, casually used his fork to pick up the reddest strawberry, and held it to his sister's lips.

Romi took a big bite with a "whoosh," juice spilling from the corner of her mouth, and she smiled like a kitten that had stolen a fish.

Rowan sat opposite him, his fork unconsciously poking several small holes in the cake.

"Anything on your mind?"

Roy's voice was deep, and Rowan trembled.

"elder brother"

He finally spoke, his voice barely audible.

"Am I... never going to be able to beat you in a game?"

Roy raised an eyebrow, put down his fork, and the soft clinking of metal against the porcelain plate made Rowan's shoulders tremble.

His voice grew softer and softer until it was almost a whisper.

"They say my brother is a French Ligue 1 star... I can't even make the bench for my school team."

Roy didn't say anything, but reached out and ruffled his brother's hair, a little harder than usual, as if trying to force those harsh words out of Rowan's mind.

"fine."

He suddenly laughed, "When we get to Monaco, I'll send you to the best football school."

Chen Lan's face was full of astonishment.

She had been sitting silently at the table eating her cake, watching Romy chatter away next to Roy.

"move place?"

She glanced at the door instinctively, and after Uncle Matthew reminded her, she said she had just had a locksmith reinforce the lock last week, saying, "It's enough to keep out thieves."

Roy followed her gaze to the door: the lock could keep out thieves, but not professional kidnappers.

His voice was extremely low and his tone gentle, yet every word was like a nail driven into a wooden board:

"I will arrange everything. The accommodation and school will be much better than before."

Before that, there would be a security team nearby 24 hours a day, but Roy didn't say.

He had thought about how to settle his family. He could no longer stay in Boulogne-sur-Mer. He looked at some livable cities in France and even considered immigrating them to Switzerland or Luxembourg, but language and lifestyle were problems.

He then suddenly realized that "the safest country in the world" was right beneath his feet.

Monaco's security is built on wealth and elite culture; it is a private club disguised as a state, keeping out those without sufficient financial means, and Roy already has his ticket to this private club.

More importantly, as long as he doesn't fall out with the club.

Even if he transfers to another club in the future, most people here will still respect him.

Roy didn't know how to explain that her son was a walking arsenal on the field and a mobile vault off the field.

Countless eyes in the shadows were watching him.

Miliacho's crisis consultant warned him: "For every million euros your net worth increases, the risk factor for your family increases by 15%."

The betting companies offered him "severe injury odds for the season".

On an extreme fan forum, someone posted: "Let his brother experience what it's like to have his leg broken by a tackle."

Finally, Chen Lan got up and ladled out a third bowl of soup, the spoon scraping against the bottom of the pot with a harsh sound.

I only asked one question:
"Can I bring the Buddhist shrine with me?"

March 8, 2003, Ligue 1 Round 30 match.

Monaco will host Bordeaux.

In the first half, Monaco's attacking onslaught remained sharp, relentlessly assaulting Bordeaux's impenetrable defense.

In the twelfth minute, Roy cut inside from the left flank, dribbled past Bordeaux defender Cojo Afanou with a series of changes of direction, and fired a low shot from the edge of the box.

Bordeaux's Lamé made a diving save, flicking the ball out of bounds with his fingertips.

In the 25th minute, Giuly broke through on the left and crossed the ball, and Pulso's header hit the crossbar. This was the closest chance to score in the entire match.

Both of Bordeaux's star striker Pauleta's long-range shots were easily saved by Roma.

Halftime statistics:

Shooting: Monaco 9-3 Bordeaux

Possession: 62% vs. 38%.

But the score remained 0-0.

Bordeaux delivered the fatal blow in the second half.

Seventy-second minute.

Dashville received a through ball from Eduardo Costa and successfully broke the offside trap to create a one-on-one opportunity.

Facing the onrushing Roma, he delicately chipped the ball, which arced gracefully into the net.

The Bordeaux bench erupted in chaos as manager Bopp punched his fist and sprinted ten meters, nearly crashing onto the field.

Dashville sprinted to the side of the stands, took off his jersey to celebrate, revealing a T-shirt underneath that read "Pour ma mère" (Dedicated to my mother).

He continued to laugh even after being drenched in beer by fans who had knocked him over.

Eighty-fifth minute.

Roy was brought down just outside the penalty area, but the referee did not award a penalty.

Deschamps angrily kicked a water bottle on the sidelines, and the fourth official showed him a yellow card.

In stoppage time, Max took a long-range shot from the edge of the box, and Lamé made a brilliant save, tipping the ball over the crossbar with one hand.

The final whistle blows.

The Canal+ commentator's voice was deep and solemn:
"The match is over. Monaco lost 0-1 at home to Bordeaux. It was a game in which they dominated possession and had far more shots on goal, but ultimately failed to score. Their unbeaten run came to an abrupt end in the fourteenth round. The Monaco players walked slowly toward the North Stand with their heads down—they knew they had to pay tribute to their loyal fans."

The entire Bordeaux team celebrated wildly, with Bordeaux coach Elie Bopp rushing towards the away team's stands, tearing off his tie and dancing wildly, before being forcibly pulled back by his assistant coach.

Bordeaux midfielder Eduardo Costa knelt down and kissed the turf before throwing his jersey to a young disabled fan who had traveled with the team on the road.

Deschamps looked ashen, but quickly straightened his suit and walked over to shake hands with Bopp.

Pauleta hoisted goalkeeper Lamé onto his shoulders and spun him around, while Savio mimicked a bullfighter's move for the camera.

The entire Bordeaux team joined hands and bowed to the away stands in gratitude, to which the fans responded with a cold fireworks display. Roy stood alone in the center circle, staring at the goal for three seconds before turning to applaud the fans.

Giuly squatted on the ground tearing at the turf, while Rothen's face was ashen; he had received a yellow card today for kicking the corner flag.

Pulso quietly picked up the scarf that a fan had thrown down and tied it around his neck.

Monaco players lined up to walk towards the die-hard fans' stand.

“Look, Giuly was the first to walk to the front of the stands. He patted the team badge on his chest and bowed deeply. The captain’s eyes were filled with remorse at that moment. Rothen followed closely behind. He grabbed a handful of turf and slammed it to the ground, but when he looked up, he saw that the fans were not angry... but silent.”

After a brief silence, a hoarse roar suddenly came from the north stand.

The camera zooms in on a muscular, tattooed man.

He ripped off his Monaco jersey, revealing his tattooed chest, and raised his muscular arms high above his head, waving the jersey like a battle flag.

"Roy! Tear them apart!!!"

The fans' emotions erupted instantly, and the roar swept across the entire stadium like a tidal wave.

"Did you hear that?! The Stade Louis II didn't erupt in boos after the loss, it roared! It was faith! That tattooed fan's shout was like a spark falling into dry hay, and now the entire stadium is echoing the same words: 'Roy! Tear them apart!'"

The camera pans across the stands.

The white-haired old man pounded his chest, roaring until his veins bulged.

The child in the mother's arms held up a crooked sign that read: "Next time, bring in five!"

Suddenly, cold fireworks burst forth from the North Stand, blurring the faces of the fans amidst the red and white smoke, yet conveying their fervor.

"This is the spirit of Monaco fans. They can accept defeat, but they will never bow their heads! The chant of 'Daghe Munegu' is more powerful right now than during any victory, as if telling the players: We are stronger than the score!"

Roy stood in the center circle and slowly raised his head.

“Look at Roy’s expression… he wasn’t frustrated, he wasn’t apologetic, but his eyes were slightly narrowed, like an enraged wolf. The fans’ shouts had clearly reached his ears—his right hand clenched unconsciously, his knuckles turning white.”

At this moment, the TV began to replay the incident in slow motion: In the 29th minute, Roy was fouled violently by a Bordeaux defender, but the referee did not call a foul.
When a team goes too far, the invisible hand begins to intervene.

The camera pans to a panoramic view, where the stadium resembles a red and white volcano amidst the singing.

"This is the most touching moment in football, when defeat ignites an even stronger loyalty. Monaco fans have shown the world through their actions that their love for this team is not a superficial 'love only when they win,' but a steely 'love that grows stronger with each setback.'"

"And Roy, the name chanted by the entire stadium, carries a weight of pressure and trust on his shoulders. But don't forget, he's already racked up seven goals and three assists in the previous five matches! The fans know that their young 'demon king' will never break his promise!"

The camera finally focuses on the moment when the tattooed, muscular man throws his jersey onto the court.

Roy caught it, held it tightly in his hand, and raised it high.

His black hair, soaked with sweat, hung down in front of his forehead, looking somewhat disheveled.

The red and white scarves billowing in the stands were reflected in his pupils, like a raging wildfire.

At the time when Elie Pope made the famous quote at the post-game press conference: "We're not here to compete, we're here to slay dragons!"

In Monaco's mixed zone, reporters swarmed forward with microphones in hand, their flashes casting sharp shadows on Roy's face.

"Roy, Monaco's 14-game unbeaten run has ended. You didn't score a single goal today. Does this mean your form has declined?"

"Bordeaux shut you down with their defense. Did this expose your technical weaknesses?"

"The fans were chanting 'Tear them apart,' but you seemed helpless today. Were you under too much pressure?"

Roy's response was one of calm disdain.

He lowered his head slightly, his dark pupils rising in the shadow of his eyelashes, and a hint of arrogance curved his lips.

"No one can win every war—"

He paused, his gaze sweeping over each reporter as if he were counting his prey.

"But someone will definitely be the final winner."

"The reason you care so much about us losing a game is because we've won too many games before."

"The reason you care that I didn't score today is because I scored seven goals and provided three assists in the previous game."

He gently straightened his cuffs.

"My teammates and I should be ashamed of losing. Not because of the result, but because we have the best fans."

The distant chanting of "Daghe Munegu" by fans drifted over, and he listened for half a second, his eyes flickering slightly.

"But at the same time, we also feel relieved."

Roy suddenly laughed, like a beast licking its fangs.

"Because a new winning streak is about to begin, and—this time we're carrying anger, but also a responsibility to win for the fans."

The press area fell silent for a moment.

Roy leaned forward slightly, closer to the nearest microphone, his voice as soft as if he were telling a secret.

"The entire French Ligue 1 should be afraid of us."

"Who will be the first? I forgot the schedule, does anyone remember?"

The reporters looked at each other.

"The league is a long-term competition. Winning, losing, and drawing are all normal. Everyone else is also winning and losing."

He straightened his collar, indicating that the interview was over.

"Perhaps when we lift the trophy, you'll look back on this match—"

"You'll find that we were destined to be champions all along."

The flashbulbs went off instantly.

"But now? I need to prepare for goals and victories in the next match."

Charlotte Casiraghi emerged from the shadows, this time without her Monaco scarf, and wearing a slightly oversized dark gray suit jacket over a white shirt, with a temporary press pass around her neck and a voice recorder in her hand—disguised as a new intern.

She tilted her head slightly, her dark chestnut hair falling over her shoulders, a sly smile playing on her lips, but her eyes were much more serious than before.

"Would you be interested in a local newspaper interview?"

Roy stopped and glanced at her sideways.

"I don't give interviews after a failure."

Charlotte raised an eyebrow, not intimidated at all, but instead chuckled softly: "Is it because you're too ashamed?!"

"Because there are too few available slots."

(End of this chapter)