There are still seven days left before the contract expires, and the coach has already signed the termination letter.
In my previous life, my plans were stolen, my signature was robbed, and I died suddenly at my workstation.
It's even worse in this life - 45% shooting, 40% body, and the system said my hit rate is "about the same as my grandma throwing darts with her eyes closed."
I said, "Who is your grandma?"
The system said: "I don't have a grandma. This is a metaphor. It's a metaphor for you."
But there was something invisible to others floating in front of my eyes: three lines flashed, the brightest on the left and the darkest on the right. Within 0.3 Seconds, the ball had been scored.
Seven days. A youth training camp of a Premier League giant, an abandoned general who is about to be kicked out.
The old French man who signed the contract to let me go said, "Son, you are not this material."
He later changed his tune.
Later, all of Europe changed its tune.
"Where are you from?"
"In the pile of termination letters."
