The heavy rain hit the plastic floor of the training ground like countless tiny iron nails. The wind carried the water vapor and tore the coach's roar to pieces.
"Zhou Ye! You are a fucking goalkeeper, not a street gangster!" The coach's spit mixed with rainwater and splashed on the boy's red face, "What you kicked was a head! Not a ball! You are crazier than Lu Chen back then!"
The whole audience burst into laughter. Some people whistled, some held up their mobile phones to record the video, and some whispered: "I heard that lunatic kicked someone into the ICU back then, and the league immediately eliminated him."
Zhou Ye knelt in the mud, with the red card hanging on his chest like a medal of shame. He raised his head, rain dripping down his chin, and he couldn't tell whether it was sweat or tears. He stared at the end of the bench - the goalkeeper in faded protective gear, silent as stone.
Lu Chen.
He didn't move. Didn't look up. Didn't look at anyone. But the knuckles were clenched so hard that they turned white, and the veins bulged under the yellowed cuffs, like a steel wire stretched to the limit.
No one knows that those eyes made strikers throughout Asia fearful five years ago.
The lights in the locker room stay on until two in the morning.
Zhou Ye smashed the mirror. The crisp sound of exploding glass woke up the entire building. He was barefoot, stepping on the debris, holding half a bottle of low-quality liquor in his hand, and hoarse roar rolled out of his throat: "I just want to win! No matter what his rules! No matter what his decency! I want to be the strongest fucking goalkeeper!"
