When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 55 Killian, Killian of Bondi (Please continue reading!)
Paris, April 27, 2003.

The V8 engine of the BMW 745i hummed softly in the night on the Champs-Élysées. Roy held the steering wheel with one hand and turned up the air conditioning temperature with the other, then closed the rear window.

During this time, he rented a backstreet apartment on Avenue Montaigne in the 8th arrondissement of Paris.

To facilitate rest before and after national team matches and business activities.

He bought two new cars at once: a BMW 745i, which is more business-oriented, parked in Paris, and a fifth-generation Porsche 911 for commuting to the club.

Contrary to the widespread transfer rumors, Roy has never considered leaving Monaco this summer. This young team, coached by Deschamps, has reached the Champions League final even without him, coming within a hair's breadth of European glory.

Given his character, there was no reason for him to desert his post at this crucial moment.

Roy was reluctant to sit down at the contract renewal negotiation table, simply waiting for the most opportune moment.

Waiting for my value to be fully proven, waiting for the chips in my hand to be substantial enough.

Only then, with his undeniable strength and contributions, will he be able to secure a contract that truly matches his value.

In the rearview mirror, Chen Lan, the mother, was helping her younger sister Luo Mi tidy her hair, which had been ruffled by the wind.

His younger brother, Luo Wen, sat beside him, holding a soccer ball, his forehead pressed against the car window, silently gazing at the lights flowing outside.

Roy was called up for a friendly match between France and Egypt, and took the opportunity to travel to Paris with his family to watch the game.

After the French Ligue 1 season ended, he moved to Monaco to settle down.

The cruise ships on the Seine gleamed with golden light, and the Eiffel Tower shimmered in the distance like a scepter studded with diamonds.

Roy glanced at the passenger seat, at his younger brother's profile—the ten-year-old boy's brows were furrowed, his fingers unconsciously digging into the patterns on the soccer ball, his knuckles still bearing the marks from yesterday's game.

Yesterday, when Roy returned to Boulogne-sur-Mer, the apartment was so quiet that he could hear his sister Romy turning the pages of a picture book.

Mother Chen Lan sat on the sofa, clutching a crumpled report card in her hand.

"He went to play football again?" Roy took off his coat and asked softly.

Chen Lan didn't say anything, but simply pushed the report card over—her math score had dropped from an A to a C, and the teacher's comment section read "inattentiveness".

Then came muffled thuds from outside the window. Roy went to the balcony and saw Rowan frantically shooting at the wall in the open space downstairs, the football drawing stubborn arcs in the twilight.

—Just like myself back then.

Recently, Rowan has been obsessed with playing football, wanting to emulate his brother and become an excellent football player. He has even gotten into arguments and fights with children while playing football.

Chen Lan criticized him harshly, but he remained stubborn.

"Xiao Wen".

Roy spoke, his voice much softer than the car's heater.

Rowan didn't turn around, but his ears twitched.

"Do you see that bridge?"

Roy pointed with his chin to the dazzling golden sculptures of the Alexander III Bridge in front of him. "It was a gift from the Russians to France more than a hundred years ago. The designer spent three years making sure it was perfect from every angle."

He paused: "But do you know what? At first, Parisians thought it was too ostentatious."

Rowan finally turned his face, his eyes reflecting the lights on the bridge.

"Everyone has their own path."

Roy tapped his fingers lightly on the steering wheel. "You can like football, or you can hate it; you can become a star, or you can not."

He suddenly laughed: "Let's build a bridge."

As the car drove past the Louvre's glass pyramid, the reflected lights danced on Rowan's face.

"What I mean is, anything is possible, give it a try."

Roy said, "After we move to Monaco next month, I'll send you to the football academy and play with you for half an hour after training on non-match days. If you still like it in two years, we'll go to the youth academy; if not..."

He reached out and ruffled his brother's hair: "We'll learn to surf, or build bridges, or become someone who changes light bulbs for the Eiffel Tower." Romi giggled in the back seat, while Chen Lan's eyes glistened with tears.

Rowan looked down at the soccer ball in his arms and suddenly whispered, "Can you teach me your signature shot? The one where you aim long and hit close."

As the BMW entered the tunnel and darkness enveloped the cabin, Roy's smile shone brightly in the blue light of the dashboard: "It starts next month."

As the car emerged from the tunnel, the myriad lights of Paris came into view, like countless futures waiting to be chosen.

On the tree-lined road outside the Clairefontaine base, Roy's BMW 745i slowly came to a stop on the outskirts of the base.

There's an area near the base entrance where fans wait for national team call-ups. The stars can park their cars on the roadside and sign autographs for the fans through the fence.

Roy turned off the engine, took off his sunglasses, and walked towards the crowd.

He handled the autographs and photos with practiced ease, until—

A small hand tugged at the hem of his clothes.

Roy looked down and met a pair of round eyes.

It was a mixed-race boy of about four or five years old. A black man stood behind him, patting him on the shoulder to encourage him. But his skin was much lighter than his father's, and he had chubby cheeks. He was tightly clutching a French national team jersey with the number 10 on it—Zidane's number.

"Can you sign this for me?"

The little boy's voice was childish yet clear, and his eyes held a seriousness beyond his years.

Roy paused, taken aback.

The child looked so familiar—although he was still young, his slightly upturned lips, lively eyes, round head, and short neck were striking.

"Sorry, little one."

Roy crouched down, looking him straight in the eye. "I can't sign for Zidane."

He paused, then suddenly smiled. "But what's your name?"

"Kyrian!"

The boy puffed out his chest and said in a clear voice, "Killian of Bondi."

As Roy turned and walked toward the BMW 745i, the surrounding air suddenly became quiet for a few seconds.

He opened the back door and pulled out a brand-new French national team jersey with the number 11 from his training bag—it was originally a spare; the pure white team emblem gleamed with a silky sheen in the sunlight.

"Take it."

He crouched down, handed the jersey to Mbappe, and after signing his name in a bold, flowing gesture with a black marker, he added a final line:
"For Bondi's Kylian - R11"

The surrounding fans immediately stirred.

"Roy! My son wears size 11 too!"

"Please, send me one more item."

Amidst the clamor of pleas, Kylian Mbappé was stunned.

He looked down at the jersey, which was almost bigger than him, his fingers carefully tracing the raised embroidered number, then suddenly looked up: "Why me?"

"Practice hard, Killian."

Before leaving, Roy ruffled the little boy's short, curly hair. "Who knows, maybe one day you'll wear this jersey and play football with me."

Roy started the car and drove towards the base. The childish voice behind him, amplified by the distance, cried out, "I'll be faster than you!"

Behind the sunglasses, a hint of amusement could be seen in Roy's eyes:

"Great, I'll be waiting for the day I can say, 'I thought he was here to help me out!'"

(End of this chapter)