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

After the interview, Zhang Kuang went into the locker room.

Before he even opened the door, he could hear the commotion inside—the sound of champagne corks popping, the players shouting, and the clinking of some kind of metal object rolling on the floor.

He pushed open the door.

"Bang!"

A bottle of champagne was sprayed directly in his face.

Grihidin stood in the center of the locker room, a bottle of champagne in his left hand and another in his right, spraying it everywhere like a madman. Minho squatted in a corner, recording video with a DV camera, the lens swaying back and forth, panning across everyone in the locker room.

Olić was dancing shirtless on a bench, while Yellen sat on a bench wiping her face with a towel, her expression as if she had just been crying. Pedretti sat in a corner, a bottle of beer in her hand, a smile on her lips.

"Zhang is here!" Grihidin shouted, and everyone simultaneously pointed their champagne at him.

Zhang Kuang was sprayed all over, laughing as he dodged, but the locker room was only so big, and he had nowhere to escape.

"You bunch of bastards—" He coughed from the champagne, but he couldn't stop smiling.

Grihidin rushed over and hugged him tightly. The two of them, soaking wet, clung to each other like two drowned rats.

"Zhang, we wouldn't have won this championship without you." Grihidin's voice suddenly became serious. "Thank you."

Zhang Kuang patted him on the back: "Without you guys, I wouldn't have gotten it."

"Come on," Minho peeked out from the corner. "You scored thirty-three goals by yourself, more than the entire team combined. This championship belongs to you alone."

A chorus of agreement rose from the locker room.

"Yes! Zhang is the champion all by himself!"

"Zhang is the MVP! The season MVP!"

"Zhang is the king of Ligue 1!"

"..."

Zhang Kuang raised his voice loudly: "Stop, stop, stop! If you keep saying that, I'll get upset. Winning the championship is a team effort. I did score a lot of goals, but what's the point of scoring so many goals without the team?"

Don't put all the credit for the championship on me alone. That's not an honor for me, it's a burden. So, brothers, we can celebrate, but we can't keep saying that this championship was won by me alone.

Despite his arrogant name, Zhang Kuang also behaves arrogantly in front of reporters and women.

But his arrogance wasn't due to stupidity or lack of common sense.

To attribute Auxerre's victory to him alone would be foolish, brainless, and demonstrate a lack of teamwork and emotional intelligence.

"Okay, Zhang, you're absolutely right. You're a truly great player."

After Captain Benoît Pedretti finished speaking, he hugged Zhang Kuang. The others were also impressed by Zhang Kuang's words. The biggest contributor did not take credit for himself, but shared the credit with the team, which made them all convinced.

The locker room door was pushed open.

Alain Dujon, the president of Auxerre Club, walked in.

The owner, whom the players affectionately called "Scrooge," wore a rare, genuine smile. Behind him followed the club's general manager and several staff members, each holding a stack of envelopes.

The locker room fell silent.

Du Rong stood in the center of the locker room, looking at his players.

"I'm not very good with words," he began, his voice a little hoarse, "but I want to say—thank you. Fourteen years, Auxerre has waited fourteen years, and finally won the Ligue 1 title again."

He paused.

"I know I'm not a generous boss. I haven't given you the highest salaries or the best conditions. But you have to understand me. It's precisely because of my lack of generosity that Auxerre has been able to maintain a good business performance and results in the league for so many years."

Of course, I'm not here to boast about my achievements. I'm here to tell you that today I'm going to make an exception and be generous. Come on, take a look at your championship prize money!

He nodded to the people behind him.

Staff began distributing envelopes.

Each player received an envelope, opened it, and their expressions changed—some stared wide-eyed, some gaped open, and some stood there speechless.

Zhang Kuang opened his envelope.

Inside was a check.

Amount: 800,000 euros.

Prize money for winning the championship.

The prize money is not much, even less than the championship prize money of some teams in the Chinese Super League and Saudi League.

But Zhang Kuang knew that for a small team like Auxerre, a single-match prize of 800,000 euros was already an astronomical figure.

Du Rong walked up to Zhang Kuang and extended his hand.

"Zhang, thank you." The old chairman's voice trembled slightly. "You are the best signing in Auxerre's history, bar none. If it weren't for you, we wouldn't have won this championship."

Zhang Kuang grasped his hand.

"Thank you for your recognition, Mr. Chairman. Winning the championship is not my achievement alone, but the achievement of the whole team and the coaching staff. After all, there were 11 players on the field, and the coaching staff also had to make arrangements."

Du Rong patted him on the shoulder: "Haha, I admire your magnanimity. You know when to be arrogant and when to be humble."

I know you might be leaving this summer, and I won't try to stop you. But I want to say—wherever you go, Auxerre will always be your home, and you're always welcome back if you want to.

Zhang Kuang: "Thank you, Mr. Chairman. We'll have the opportunity to cooperate again."

As the two were chatting, Fernandez returned from his press conference, beaming with pride. They then celebrated for a while longer.

After the celebration, the players began to wash up and pack their belongings.

Zhang Kuang sat on the bench, slowly tidying up. His phone, which had been vibrating since the match ended, was in the cabinet, but he couldn't be bothered to check it.

Humbert leaned closer and lowered his voice: "Zhang, those young women asked me when you're free. They said they haven't been able to forget you since last time."

Zhang Kuang glanced at him: "Are you addicted to pimping? No, wait, they're not treating me like a gigolo's girlfriend, are they? Addicted to being a girlfriend?"

"What do you mean by pimping? What do you mean by girlfriend? That's too formal." Humbert looked innocent. "I'm just helping you make the connection."

And they said they'd introduce me to even better ones next time. The socialites of Parisian arts and culture, they're much more sophisticated than the last few."

Zhang Kuang shook his head: "It costs more."

"..." Humbert was speechless. "You win!"

-

It was already 11 p.m. when Zhang Kuang walked out of the locker room.

In the parking lot, a black Mercedes pulled up in front of him. The window rolled down, and Jonathan LeBron's face appeared in the window.

"Get in the car." The agent's expression was serious. "Someone is waiting for you."

Zhang Kuang opened the car door and got in.

"Who?"

"Ferguson."

Zhang Kuang was stunned for a moment.

"Ferguson? The Ferguson from Manchester United?"

"Who else do you think I'm talking about? I've called you and texted you, but you never reply." Jonathan started the car. "He's waiting for you at a hotel in Lyon. He's flying back to Manchester first thing tomorrow morning."

"Sorry, everyone was celebrating, so I didn't check my phone. Okay, since he wants to meet, let's meet."

Zhang Kuang leaned back in his seat, looking at the night view outside the window.

The Lyon night rushed past the car window, the city lights flickering on his face.