Soccer: If they're using these kinds of cheats, what's the point of training?

In the locker room, Zhang Kuang had just pushed open the door when he was sprayed with champagne by Grihidin.

"Fuck!" Zhang Kuang wiped the alcohol off his face and chased after Grihidin, laughing. Grihidin shouted as he ran, "It's a celebration! You scored four goals, so what if I sprayed you with a bottle of champagne?"

Minho crouched in a corner, recording video with a DV camera, the lens swaying and panning across everyone in the locker room. Pedretti sat on a bench, applying an ice pack to her knees, and waved her hand when she saw the camera: "Don't film me, I look too ugly right now."

"The captain is handsome all the time!" Minho shouted, then turned the camera towards Zhang Kuang.

Zhang stood arrogantly in front of his locker, pulling a dry towel from his bag to wipe the champagne stains off his clothes. Minho's camera panned up his body—broad shoulders, narrow waist, and sharply defined abdominal muscles.

"Hey Zhang!" Minio walked over, holding his phone. "Say a few words to celebrate your first quadruple."

Facing the camera with an exaggerated expression, Zhang said seriously, "Thank God, thank the coach, thank my teammates, thank you everyone. All four goals I scored today are thanks to everyone's support."

Grihidin then ambushed him from behind with a bottle of champagne.

Just as everyone was making a ruckus, captain Pedretti pulled a match ball from his bag—the very same match ball that Zhang Kuang used when he scored four goals—and threw it at Zhang Kuang: "Here, everyone's already signed it. This is the commemorative ball for the first four-goal haul, don't lose it."

Zhang Kuang caught the ball, glanced at the densely packed signatures on it, and a smile involuntarily crept onto his lips. This was the second match ball he had signed in Ligue 1.

Zhang Kuang sat down and took his phone out of his bag. The screen lit up, and he froze.

Unread messages: 247.

He opened his message list—Jonathan had sent 19 messages, Marina 6, and Aisha, Lina, and Matilda's messages were all crowded at the top. There was also a long list of messages from unknown numbers.

He randomly clicked on a message; it had no notes and only one line: "Mr. Zhang Kuang, I am a contracted model with XX Model Agency. I am 174cm tall, and my measurements are... I would very much like to get to know you. This is my photo."

Below is a selfie; she has blonde hair, blue eyes, and a hot figure.

He scrolled past it expressionlessly and opened the next one.

This one is even more outrageous. It starts with a photo of someone completely naked, captioned: "I heard you can handle four in one night. I want to try it."

Zhang Kuang continued skating.

There was another message that made him pause: "Zhang Kuang, I'm a classmate from the football school you attended. Do you remember me? It doesn't matter if you don't, I'll always remember you. I'm happy for you that you've come this far. No matter what others say about you, I support you."

The message came from a number he hadn't saved in his contacts. He stared at it for several seconds, unable to remember who it was, and ultimately didn't reply.

"Looks like your persona has completely collapsed." Pedretti walked over at some point, sat down next to him, and glanced at his phone screen.

He locked the screen arrogantly and put his phone in his pocket: "What kind of persona do I have? It's just something the media created for me."

"That's true," Pedretti nodded, "but aren't you afraid these things will affect your image?"

Zhang Kuang thought for a moment: "Those who would mind wouldn't have come to me in the first place. The fact that they came to me means they don't mind. I can't possibly live a life that isn't me just to please everyone, can I?"

Pedretti looked at him, a slight smile playing on her lips: "You're quite open-minded."

The locker room door opened, and a club staff member poked halfway in: "Zhang, there are several reporters outside who want to interview you, print reporters, not TV reporters. Do you want to see them?"

Grihidin shouted on his behalf: "No way! He doesn't even have time to see us, how could he have time to see reporters?"

Minho chimed in from the side, "Exactly! He's in a rush to get back to Paris to see his cat; his cat hasn't eaten yet today!"

Zhang Kuang glared at Minho, who pretended not to see it.

The staff member smiled and closed the door.

-

The post-match press conference was held in the press room of the Kean Gérard Stadium.

Fernandez sat on the left, and Saint-Étienne's interim head coach Christophe Galtier sat on the right, with three empty seats between them.

The first question gets straight to the heart of the matter.

A reporter from L'Équipe stood up: "Mr. Fernandez, first of all, congratulations to Auxerre on this resounding victory. How would you rate Zhang's performance today? Four goals, two of which were spectacular strikes—do you think this is his normal level?"

Fernandez picked up his water glass, took a sip, and said expressionlessly, "I told you, this is normal for him. You might not have believed me before, but do you now?"

A low chuckle rippled through the audience.

"Do you think he can win the Ligue 1 Golden Boot this season?" another reporter asked.

"Why not?" Fernandez retorted. "He's already scored nine league goals, only six behind the leader. There are still sixteen rounds left in the league, and as long as he stays healthy, anything is possible."

"Speaking of health," a reporter from Le Parisien chimed in, "he was subjected to a malicious tackle by Ioan during today's match. What's your opinion on that action? Is Zhang's injury serious?"

Fernandez's face darkened.

He put his water glass aside, crossed his hands on the table, and looked directly at the reporter who asked the question: "Yoan's action, to put it bluntly—that wasn't a tackle, that was a crime."

When you show your cleats, don't pull your foot back, and aim for the opponent's supporting leg, your goal isn't to steal the ball, but to incapacitate them.

His voice wasn't loud, but every word was firm and resolute: "Ligue 1 is one of the top five leagues, the world's premier football stage. If every talented player is ruined by such brutal fouls, what promising player would dare to come to Ligue 1 in the future?"

I hope the French Football Federation will deliver a fair ruling. If this action isn't severely punished, it will damage the image of the entire league.

"As for Zhang Kuang's injury," Fernandez's tone softened slightly, "the team doctor did a preliminary examination after the game, and it was mainly a contusion, with no damage to bones or ligaments."

He will undergo a more detailed examination upon returning to Auxerre, but it appears that this will not affect his availability for the next match.

A murmur arose from the press box.

The next question came quickly, and it was clearly provocative.

"Mr. Fernandez," a reporter wearing black-rimmed glasses stood up, "in today's post-match interview, he arrogantly admitted that he 'took four women out for the night' at a party a few days ago."

As his head coach, what is your opinion on the player's private life? Aren't you worried that this might affect his career?

Fernandez stared at the reporter for a few seconds, then laughed.

"I'm fifty-seven years old this year, and I've been in this industry for most of my life. What kind of players haven't I seen? Alcoholics, gamblers, fighters, night owls... I've seen too many young people squander their talent on their private lives."

He paused.

"But Zhang Kuang is different. I don't care what time he goes to bed at night, who he's with, or what he does—I look at his performance in training and his statistics in matches."

Since he arrived, he has never been late for training, never failed a physical fitness test, and never failed to score in a match. His performance has not only not declined, but has actually improved.

In this situation, what right do I have to interfere in his private life?

Some reporters in the audience couldn't help but laugh out loud.

Fernandez continued, "Young people are energetic and curious about matters between men and women, and there's nothing shameful about it. Don't just look at the football world, look at the entertainment industry, the art world, the political world—which circle doesn't have this kind of thing?"

However, players are public figures, so these kinds of things are easily magnified. Zhang Kuang is only eighteen; as long as he doesn't break the law or let it affect his training and matches, I won't interfere with his private life.

Christophe Galtier, the acting head coach of Saint-Étienne, sat next to him and remained expressionless throughout.

He waited until Fernandez finished speaking before slowly opening his mouth after a reporter asked him what he thought of Ioan's tackle.

"First of all, I regret Ioan's tackle," Galtier said in a low and restrained voice. "That was not a normal defensive move, and I will not defend him on that point."

But I think the public should understand that it's understandable for a defender to lose control of his emotions after conceding four goals in a row to the same player. He wasn't intentionally trying to injure his opponent; he was just too eager to stop him.

"Do you think the punishment shouldn't be so severe?" the reporter pressed.

"I didn't say there shouldn't be heavy penalties," Galtier's tone hardened. "I just said that the context of the game and the player's mental state should be taken into account before making a ruling."

Moreover, Joan was also seriously injured in the accident—his ankle was severely deformed after being trampled by Zhang Kuang. According to the latest diagnosis from the hospital, he has torn ligaments in his ankle and will need to be out of work for at least four weeks.

When a reporter posed the same question to Fernandez, the veteran coach's answer was even more straightforward: "I'm sorry I got injured, but it was his own fault. If you don't make malicious tackles, you won't lose your balance and you won't get trampled. The cause and effect are clear, I don't need to say anything more."

Galtier's face darkened.

The next question went straight to his flamboyant private life.

"Mr. Galtier, what are your thoughts on such an extravagant private life?"

Galtier took a deep breath: "I believe that as a professional player, one should restrain one's behavior. On the field, you are a role model for young people, and off the field, you should also shoulder corresponding social responsibilities."

A chaotic private life and irresponsible remarks—this is a stain on the entire football world.

Fernandez did not immediately refute. He simply added calmly after Galtier finished speaking, "I will manage my players, and I ask Mr. Galtier to manage his own players as well. At least I can guarantee that my players did not make any malicious tackles on the field."

The air in the press room suddenly froze.

Galtier's face turned from red to white, his lips moved a few times, but he ultimately did not reply.