When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 38 The Hunt Begins! (Please continue reading!)

"Kessie—! The great Israeli right-back! He launches an attack! Passes to Tal—a brilliant one-two! Thuram is outmaneuvered! Kessie continues his sprint! A cutback pass from the byline—Revivo! A brilliant touch! Silvestre is beaten like a wooden stake!"

Revevo dribbled into the penalty area, and Gallas retreated step by step, causing the Israeli commentator to almost break his voice.

"Revivo! Cross the ball—Zanderberg!!! Shoot—!!!"

The commentator's voice suddenly rose to almost screams the moment Barthez made his incredible save.

"NOOOOOO!!! Barthez! That damn French goalkeeper! How did he do that?! Zanderberg's powerful shot was saved!!! God! This is unfair!!!"

The narrator, panting heavily and with a sob in his voice, said:

"We were just 5 centimeters away from scoring! Just 5 centimeters away!!!"

Inside the stadium, thousands of Israeli fans, who had already jumped up to celebrate, froze when Barthez made the save, and then erupted in a deafening wail.

An elderly Jewish man wearing a small round cap pounded his chest and stamped his feet, cursing in Hebrew: "How could that ball not go in?!"

The young people knelt down with their heads in their hands, and some even kicked their seats in anger.

The Jewish community bars in New York City went from cheering to deathly silent.

An American Jewish man in front of his television raised his beer glass in a toast, but the moment the ball was saved, the entire scene froze, and the bar fell into a deathly silence.

A fan wearing a "Maccabi Tel Aviv" scarf slammed his glass down, splashing beer foam all over the table: "The French stole our goal!"

A small restaurant on the streets of Jerusalem.

The owner stood frozen in front of the grill, the meat in his hand falling into the charcoal fire, emitting a puff of smoke.

A rabbi closed his eyes and prayed, whispering, "Next time... next time it will definitely go in."

indeed.

The camera cuts back to the pitch, where Zanderberg is kneeling and holding his head in his hands, Rewivo is angrily kicking the turf away, and Barthez grins as he launches the ball long into the attacking third.
The French television commentator gave a dismissive smile:
"Barthez? He just did what he was supposed to do. Did the Israelis really think they could break down the world champions' defense? Barthez, long pass to the center circle—Trezeguet! Zidane to receive! Roy and Henry are both making runs forward! Counter-attack! Counter-attack! Counter-attack!"

Trezeguet leaped from the ground, heading the ball to Zidane! Zidane received the ball, pulled it with his left foot, and spun like a giant tower, flicking it to the right and cutting it to the left, breaking through the encirclement of Casillas and Tal-Banen like a butterfly flitting among flowers!

"ZIDANE! Pulling left and right! My God! He's like he's dancing the tango! He's got the two Israelis completely bewildered!"

After breaking through, Zidane curled a low, low shot that found Henry like a cruise missile!
Henry ran while looking up, and as the ball bounced off the ground, he pushed with the instep of his foot—the ball volleyed through the air and went straight forward!

Arsenal's passing and movement skills have paid off.

"HENRY! That pass! My God! He didn't even stop the ball! He just volleyed it into a deadly arc!"

Roy stages a ruthless hunt!

The moment he received the ball, Omri Afik made a fierce tackle! But Roy leaned back and flicked the ball with his toe—it floated like a feather to the open space on the right wing!

He then accelerated rapidly, speeding down the right flank!

The Israeli defense frantically tracked back, but Roy backheeled the ball to Thuram and then slipped into the penalty area like a ghost!
"ROI! Lob the ball! Sprint! Pass it back! He's like a sharp knife, piercing the heart of the Israelis!"

Thuram crosses from the byline! Trezeguet flicks the ball on with his head, changing its trajectory towards the far post—

Roy pounced like a tiger, leaping to the top from less than a meter above the ground!

The French commentator went completely wild the moment he took to the air:
"ROOOOOOOOOOOOOI!!!!!! Cold-blooded killer! Cold bullets! He sniped the last hope of the Israelis! 4 to 1! The match is over! It's over!!!"

Slow motion: Roy's body was almost parallel to the ground as he launched a powerful header, sending the ball flying into the net like a cannonball! Israeli goalkeeper Duduawat didn't even have time to raise his hand!
When Roy looked up, the commentator's screams were still going on:

“Look into his eyes! Utterly emotionless! Utterly merciless! He’s a born terminator! Roy—he pronounced the death sentence on the Israelites in the coldest of ways!”

Roy stood up, and Trezeguet rushed toward him, laughing wildly, and put his arm around his shoulder like shaking a champagne bottle.

But Roy didn't laugh. He simply raised his right hand slowly, his index finger pressed against his temple—an execution gesture of extreme coldness.

The Israel Defense Forces radio station was broadcasting the match, and the commentator's voice trembled:

"We were slaughtered, four to one. That damn French number 11."

At the Nizarim outpost on the Gaza border, Commander Avi kicked over a radio, his face flushed as he roared:
"That bastard Roy! Who does he think he is?!"

He rushed out of the guard post, roughly unzipped his military trousers, and cursed in the direction of the French team, preparing to urinate—

boom!
A 7.62mm bullet was fired from a window in the ruins 400 meters away, piercing Avi's temple with pinpoint accuracy.

His body stiffened for a moment, then he fell heavily onto the sand, his urine mixed with blood seeping into the scorched earth.

The shooter was a 15-year-old Palestinian boy who belonged to the Al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigades.

He was using a replica SVD, the barrel wrapped with faded green cloth strips—a memento of his brother, who had died three years earlier from machine gun fire at the same outpost.

The boy slowly pulled the plug to remove the shell, his lips moving slightly:

"With blood and fire, we will redeem you, Palestine."

His eyes were colder than Roy's; it wasn't the murderous aura a player could have, but rather a poisoned hatred that grew from occupied territory.

Roy was then substituted by Wiltord.

In this match, the French team won by a large margin of 1-4 away from home.

Roy sat on the bench in the locker room, head down, tying his shoelaces. His hair, freshly washed, was dry and fluffy.

Zidane, with a towel draped around his neck, stood on either side of Trezeguet in front of him, like two mafia members who had come to discuss business.

Zidane's tone was calm, but carried an undeniable authority:
"Come with us to a party."

Roy looked up, his brow furrowing slightly: "What party?" Trezeguet grinned and lowered his voice:

“A group of Jews are willing to pay a high price to meet us—now they are particularly interested in you.”

Roy's lips twitched.

"I'm not very interested."

Zidane leaned slightly forward, his voice seductive:

"Go sit for half an hour, $50,000."

Trezeguet raised an eyebrow and added:
"Cash! No taxes required."

Roy shook his head, his tone indifferent:
"I don't want to be treated like an animal on display."

The locker room fell silent for a second.

Trezeguet raised an eyebrow, but Zidane smiled.

He sat down next to Roy, put his arm around his shoulder, and said in a low voice:
“Listen, you just conquered their national team on the field, and now they’re paying us to enjoy their suffering.”

He paused for a moment, a playful glint in his eyes:

"You hate being treated like an animal? Then treat them like an ATM."

Roy paused for a moment, then nodded.

Inside the stadium parking lot, six people waited for their ride, talking in hushed tones.

Trezeguet suddenly received a phone call, and a playful smile appeared on his lips.

Trezeguet hung up the phone and looked at Roy:
"Kid, you haven't even played football in Italy yet, and people are already eyeing you."

Henry raised an eyebrow with amusement: "Who?"

Trezeguet smiled meaningfully: "Federalca Fontana—Inzaghi's ex-girlfriend, now the star of Italia 1 TV."

Vieira chuckled: "It seems the Italians are more enthusiastic than we thought."

Trezeguet patted Roy on the shoulder, half-jokingly saying, "Milan isn't anything special. Frenchmen should play in Turin. Like you said in the interview, it's a fucking legacy. Right, Zidane?"

Zidane smiled slightly and shrugged noncommittally.

“Go to hell!” Vieira glared.

Vieira previously played for AC Milan.

Federica Fontana and Filippo Inzaghi's relationship began in 2000. This high-profile football couple's relationship lasted for about three years before they officially broke up in March 2003.

During the program, Fontana choked up as he announced, "My number 9 jersey needs to be sent to the dry cleaners."

She later wrote in her autobiography: "He lived on the offside line, while I needed a clear stance in life."

In 2007, she married businessman Felice Rusconi.

Inzaghi, who has remained unmarried for many years, admitted in a 2019 interview with Corriere della Sera: "Some goals can be scored again, but some people are missed forever."

A few minutes later, an Italia 1 media vehicle drove into the parking lot.

The car door opened, and Federica Fontana stepped out.

Palermo was still chilly in early April, but she wore only a fitted camel-colored cashmere trench coat, the belt tied just right, outlining her slender waist and full bust.

Beneath the hem of the trench coat, a pair of long legs clad in Jimmy Choo stilettos were faintly visible.

Her long, light golden hair was slightly wavy and fell over her shoulders. Her lips were a subtle yet alluring rose-red, and her eyeliner was slightly upturned, giving her a lazy yet sharp look.

Her cool and aloof demeanor exudes a subtle allure, as if she is aware of her charm but is too lazy to deliberately display it.

She walked slowly closer, her gaze sweeping over everyone's faces as she warmly greeted them, finally settling on Roy.

Federica's voice is deep, with a hint of huskiness and magnetism:
"Roy?"

She handed him her business card, her fingertips lightly touching his palm.

"Before you leave Italy, would you be interested in a brief interview? Tonight? Just over a cup of coffee."

Roy took the business card, his fingertips tracing the frosted lettering, his eyes calm, but a subtle, enigmatic smile played at the corners of his lips.

His tone was calm, yet subtly probing:
"Maybe. But I'm not sure about tonight's plans yet."

Federica chuckled, her eyes filled with challenge:

"Then let's see if there's anything more worthwhile than a cup of coffee in your 'plans'."

She turned and walked toward the car, the hem of her trench coat swaying gently with her steps, leaving behind a faint scent of patchouli and rose.

Vieira whistled softly: "It seems the Italian 'interview' is more complicated than we thought."

Trezeguet grinned mischievously: "Kid, you'd better watch out—Inzaghi's ex-girlfriend isn't just some casual coffee invitation."

Roy put the business card in his pocket, shook his head, and said helplessly:

"Who knows? Maybe the coffee is good too."

I wrote a short update... but it's under review. Please wait a bit, sorry.

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(End of this chapter)