Football: He suffered a broken leg at the start of the game, but partnered with Haaland!

Haaland sat cross-legged on the carpet with his bare feet completely bare.

All the ferocious, man-eating energy he displayed on the field was gone; now he was like a shy young boy, happily chewing on an energy bar, with several sports newspapers delivered that morning beside him.

He swallowed the food in his mouth, scratched his blond hair, and turned to look at Sun Yang, who was applying an ice pack to his thigh.

"Brother, I read everything you said at the press conference last night." Haaland picked up the newspaper, shook it, and asked in a low voice, "Tell me honestly, were you kidding those German journalists, or were you serious?"

Sun Yang leaned back on the sofa, tossing a small ball in his hand.

"Teasing them? I'd rather be bored than find something to amuse them."

Haaland's blue eyes widened.

"My God! That's Robert Lewandowski! That guy's been a heartless goal-scoring machine this season! He's already scored eighteen goals, and I've only scored five! How are we going to fill this gap of over ten goals?"

For a young man who has just arrived in the Bundesliga, the idea of ​​challenging Bayern Munich's absolute core player is simply insane.

Sun Yang tossed the ball aside and casually grabbed a marker from the tactical board next to him.

"Erling, I've discovered that your math skills are definitely taught by a PE teacher. Don't just build muscles in your brain; occasionally fill it with numbers too."

Sun Yang removed the pen cap and wrote a set of numbers directly on the glass of the coffee table in front of him.

"Come on, let me do the math for you. The Bundesliga has thirty-four rounds in total. We've played nineteen rounds so far, right?"

Haaland nodded in perfect agreement.

"That Pole has scored eighteen goals so far. In the remaining fifteen rounds, even if he doesn't get sick or rest and plays every game, even if I say he averages one goal per game, he'll only score a maximum of thirty-three by the end of the season. How about I be generous and give him forty?" Sun Yang tapped his pen on the glass.

Haaland quickly came over and started counting on his thick fingers.

"Forty, that's right."

"And what about you?" Sun Yang pointed to Haaland's broad chest.

"Me? I scored five goals in two games."

"That's right. Since I can comfortably feed you goals in two games, I can do the same in the remaining fifteen. As long as your leg doesn't break, I guarantee you'll get the same scoring opportunities."

Sun Yang wrote a big "fifteen" on the glass.

"Giving you two or three excellent chances per game is basic practice. Fifteen games, that's an average of two goals per game. Thirty goals, plus your current five, that's thirty-five!"

"If you get a few lucky breaks and score a hat-trick or even a quadruple, breaking the 40-goal mark will be a piece of cake. Once you surpass 41 goals, you'll not only win the Golden Boot, but you'll also crush the single-season goal record left by that old man named Gerd Müller!"

Haaland sat on the carpet, completely stunned.

The nerve in my brain called reason short-circuited.

Off the field, this guy is just a naive, hot-blooded idiot. His mind is already replaying the image of him scoring a one-on-one goal and the whole stadium chanting his name.

"Thirty, two per game." Haaland muttered to himself as if possessed, his eyes practically bulging with excitement.

Just as Haaland was about to be completely fooled by this incredible promise, an extremely discouraging voice interrupted from the side.

"Wake up, you big oaf, stop dreaming!"

Sancho walked over from the water dispenser with a cup of protein powder that smelled strange and slapped Haaland on the head without any politeness.

"Jaden! You interrupted my train of thought! I was just calculating that I'd surpassed forty goals and was about to receive the Golden Boot trophy!" Haaland waved Sancho's hand away in annoyance.

Sang Qiao rolled his eyes and plopped down on the armrest of the sofa next to Sun Yang.

"Your brain is truly something else. Do you think those defenders on the other side, who earn millions a year, are just tree stumps? Just because you two are passing and shooting recklessly in the penalty area?"

Sancho took a big gulp of protein powder and continued to complain with a look of disgust on his face.

"Forty or even fifty goals in a single season? That's unbelievable. Looking at European football over the past decade, who can achieve such insane statistics? Don't forget that short Argentine player, that monster named Messi, who scored a phenomenal 73 goals in a single season for Barcelona—a feat encompassing all Champions League and cup competitions!"

"If we're only talking about the league, you have to be at full strength every game, you can't catch a cold, you can't strain your thigh, and you can't get a red card. The slightest mishap will ruin your stats! Winning the Golden Boot in the Bundesliga, thirty goals is already astronomical, and you want to break forty?"

Sancho's extremely objective and calm analysis was like a bucket of cold water, completely extinguishing the small flame that had just ignited in Haaland's heart.

The Norwegian behemoth slumped its head, somewhat dejectedly stuffing the remaining half of its energy bar into its mouth, muttering indistinctly, "Yeah, what if those guys are unsportsmanlike and stab me in the back? I'd be stuck in a hospital bed for months!"

"What's there to be afraid of with dirty tackles? With me on the field, no one in Dortmund will back down."

A steady voice suddenly rang out at the door of the physiotherapy room.

Captain Royce walked in carrying a cup of Americano. He looked at the young men with a smile in his eyes, but a sharp edge was undeniable in them.

On the massage bed next to him, the defensive anchor, vice-captain Hummels, also rolled over and let out a heavy groan.

"Jaden, you're way more timid than you are at dribbling." Hummels pinched his thick calf muscles and gestured with his chin at Haaland. "Don't listen to him, Erling. You have Son setting up the play for you up front, and we old guys backing you up from behind. Any defender who dares to foul you, I guarantee he won't be walking back to the locker room standing up this game."

Defensive midfielder Witsel simply grabbed a tactical board and threw it over.

"Look at the standings now. We're just three points behind the top!" Witsel slapped his water glass. "The points we dropped in the first half, we'll make up for in the second. Since Son dares to boast like this, we, Dortmund, will play along. You can do the attacking stuff, and we'll handle the dirty work on defense!"

The attitude of the senior players in the locker room was like a shot of adrenaline, directly into Haaland's veins.

The Norwegians' eyes once again ignited that burning desire to tear the net apart.

Seeing the atmosphere completely ignited, Sun Yang speechlessly threw the marker on the table.

He stood up and walked over to Haaland.

"Erling, lift your head."

Haaland obediently raised his face, which held a mixture of fierceness and bewilderment.

With his hands in his pockets, Sun Yang looked down at the future world-class striker, who was destined to dominate the football scene, and uttered a philosophical statement from the East that left both veterans and newcomers stunned.

"If a person doesn't even have dreams..."

"Then what the hell is the difference between him and a salted fish on a chopping board, at the mercy of others?"