Chapter 21: Whoever Wins, They Support

"Dean!"

Wang Lie’s roar echoed across the first-team training pitch, and this was not the first time it had happened during this internal scrimmage.

This was an intra-squad match, where players' performances determined whether they would make the squad for the following day’s official game. As with the last session, Wang Lie and Sonny Dean had been placed on the reserve team. Consequently, everyone was treated to the familiar sound of Wang Lie constantly calling out Dean.

Although this match held implications for the upcoming roster, everyone felt it was a hundred-percent certainty that Wang Lie would not be playing tomorrow. He had only arrived for training on the afternoon of the 21st, and having trained with the team for only three and a half days, how could he possibly be ready for the league match on the 25th? No one believed head coach McNeil would name Wang Lie to the squad, but it seemed Wang Lie disagreed.

He was playing with great intensity and effort, unwilling to let even the slightest scoring opportunity slip by. That was why he was so furious just now. He had clearly sprinted into an open space in the middle, with no defenders around him, and the goalkeeper, Goetz, had been drawn toward the near post by Dean. If only Dean had passed the ball, Wang would have had an open net to score into. Instead, Dean had chosen to take a tight-angled shot while surrounded, sending the ball wide and out of play.

Pointing at his own feet, Wang Lie shouted at Sonny Dean, "I was wide open in the middle! It was a tap-in, why didn't you pass?!"

Dean shrugged and spread his hands. "When a striker beats three defenders and faces the keeper, anyone would shoot. Don't you always do the same?"

Wang Lie kept a straight face. "But I score. Did you score just now?"

Dean was irritated by the old rascal's sophistry—as if you score every time! Had you forgotten the nickname the internet gave you, "King of Wild Shots"? However, he didn't argue back. Instead, he spread his hands again and said in a tone one might use to soothe a child, "Fine, fine, I’ll pass to you next time."

With that, he turned and jogged away.

Elliot Goetz, the goalkeeper for the first-team side, saw this and couldn't help but cast a worried glance at Wang Lie, fearing he might rush over and start a fight with Dean—who couldn't hear the condescending tone in Dean's voice?

But Wang Lie wasn't angry. Instead, he shouted at Dean’s retreating back, "Good, I'll be waiting for your pass!"

Goetz wasn't the only one surprised; even Dean nearly stumbled at the words. He couldn't help but look back to confirm if that had truly come from the old rascal, only to see Wang Lie nodding at him, an expression on his face that clearly said, "It’s a deal!"

*Crazy!*

***

After a few exchanges of possession, it was the reserve team's turn to attack. This time, while off the ball, Dean observed Wang Lie’s movement. He noticed that instead of immediately making a run into the gap, Wang was moving laterally across the middle of the first-team defense. This was normal; rushing in too soon would make his intentions obvious, and the space would vanish.

The first-team was pressing high, leaving plenty of space behind them. Dean saw these gaps, and he was certain Wang Lie saw them too. That was likely what he was aiming for. With this thought, Dean turned to call for the ball.

The pass came quickly. As the ball rolled toward him, Dean glanced at Wang Lie again. He found that Wang was also looking at him, and their eyes met. Dean clearly read the message in Wang’s gaze.

He smiled crookedly. *So you want me to pass it to you? Then go and get it!*

Adjusting his stance, he didn't trap the ball; instead, he swung his leg and struck it directly into the space behind the first-team defensive line. Simultaneously, Wang Lie burst out from behind the center-back, Matej Katic, sprinting toward the landing spot of the ball!

***

*What a beautiful pass!*

Even though he was an opponent on the pitch and didn't particularly care for Sonny Dean personally, Vitini had to admit that Dean’s one-touch pass was decisive and perfectly timed—if he had taken an extra touch, Wang would have been offside. Vitini felt sure Wang would have a chance to score now; it would be a one-on-one!

Wait... no! *It's overhit! Dammit, Sonny Dean!*

***

"Oh, it's too long!" assistant coach Cesar Varo, watching from the sidelines, couldn't help but sigh.

As Wang Lie charged past the defensive line, the ball had already traveled half the distance. Looking at the trajectory now, it was clear the ball was drifting slightly wide; Wang would need to accelerate and take two more strides to catch it. Wang realized this too. Instead of stopping to complain, he gritted his teeth and chased it down. He swung his right leg in full stride, threw his entire weight forward, and lunged at the ball.

*Thump!*

It was a sliding shot, but he managed to make contact. However, with his balance completely lost, the quality of the strike was impossible to guarantee.

Goalkeeper Elliot Goetz stood at the near post, raising his arms, head tilted back as he watched. The ball flew right in front of him, soared over the crossbar, and slammed into the wire fence behind the goal with a sharp clang before dropping to the ground.

"No, it wasn't too long, it was within a normal range," head coach McNeil said, correcting his assistant after the play concluded. "If Wang were a few years younger, he could have easily caught up, shaken off the defense, and taken the shot without all that scrambling."

Varo curled his lip. "You said 'if he were a few years younger'..."

McNeil sighed. "Yeah, if only he were a few years younger..."

Varo rolled his eyes. "Stop wishing for the impossible. Wang still has his nose for goal, but his physical condition can't support those frequent runs behind the defense anymore. We have to make him play like a target man."

***

After the scramble, Wang Lie had lost his balance completely and tumbled onto the turf. Yet, he still lifted his head, eyes fixed on the goal, desperate to see the result of his shot. What he saw was the ball hitting the wire fence behind the goal. He lowered his head, burying it in the grass. But for only a fleeting second, before he propped himself up and climbed to his feet.

Seeing Wang Lie rise, Dean felt a flicker of panic. He realized after releasing the pass that he might have overhit it slightly. He hadn't done it on purpose—a one-touch pass is incredibly difficult, and no one can guarantee pinpoint accuracy every time. He had put some power behind it to ensure the defenders couldn't intercept it, but... he knew how it looked. He knew there had been a small, selfish part of him that wanted to make it difficult for Wang.

Seeing Wang Lie struggle to his feet, a deep sense of guilt washed over him. He had witnessed the "twilight of a hero" at close range, without the filter of a television screen, and it was deeply unsettling. Even the once omnipotent "China Wang" had moments of such helplessness.

He worried that Wang might have realized he was being difficult. But to his surprise, Wang Lie didn't roar at him. Instead, he gave him a thumbs up. "Great pass, Dean! Great pass! That was my fault, my bad..."

Dean’s mouth opened, but the sarcastic retort died in his throat. He pursed his lips and tightened his face, pretending not to care about the praise.

***

After the training match, Coach McNeil announced the roster for the away game against Sedham. As expected, Wang Lie was not on it. Vitini wanted to stay behind for extra training, but Wang chased him off. "Forget it. There's a match tomorrow; you need rest and recovery."

Vitini obeyed and, as he left, said, "I promise you, Wang. I will help the team win. I’ll show those who don't believe in us!"

"Good. Go for it," Wang nodded.

***

At Sedham's home ground, White Horse Park, the singing of thirty thousand fans filled the sky. They weren't cheering for their own team, but mocking the visiting Tyne: "You’ve got nothing but money! You’ve got nothing but money!"

This song wasn't written by Sedham fans; it was a common taunt in the Premier League. When Tyne was acquired by Middle Eastern oil money, they underwent an instant "class transition," transforming from a struggling mid-to-lower-table side into a wealthy club—a "giant" in a different sense. Like all *nouveaux riches*, they had brandished their checkbooks, poaching players or driving up prices for everyone else.

For several years, they were the "public enemy number one" of European football. Every away game was an ordeal, and their losses were celebrated by the media.

In the midst of the mocking chants, Tyne made a substitution. Vitini was coming off, his expression a mix of frustration and anger. As he walked toward the bench, he was heckled by Sedham fans.

"Vitini is off. He had to be; if he’d stayed, he might have been sent off—his emotions were spiraling," the commentator noted.

"He played well in the first half," his guest added, "but he lost his head in the second. He's a brilliant talent, but that temper..."

On the bench, Vitini tried to open a bottle of water, but the cap wouldn't budge. It was the final straw. He smashed the bottle to the ground, splashing himself and his teammates.

Watching the broadcast from his sofa, Fernando Clemente sighed at the boy's impulsiveness. Wang Lie, sitting beside him, defended his protégé. "He's young, it's normal. I was even more explosive at his age."

"Is that why you're his idol?" Clemente joked.

"He's just desperate to win," Wang said. "But the ones who aren't desperate are worse. They’re indifferent to failure."

"Are you talking about Dean?"

Wang shook his head. "No, not just Dean. The 'silent majority' on the team. They aren't as active as Vitini, and they don't openly oppose me like Dean. They are just average. But they are the foundation of this team, the reason Tyne is called a 'mercenary' squad."

"Sounds complicated, Wang. Do you think this team can fulfill your ambitions?" Clemente asked.

"It’s simple," Wang leaned forward, chin resting on his hand. "The 'silent majority' are weather vanes. They follow whoever wins. They just haven't seen hope yet. Once I show them that victory is possible, they will become the force I can rely on."

On the screen, the camera panned across the faces of the Tyne players—exhausted, blank, and defeated. It was a look Wang knew well. It was the look of a team that had already accepted defeat before the final whistle.

"So, it’s simple, Fernando," Wang said, leaning back into the sofa. "When I get on that pitch and lead them to a win, these 'weather vanes' will start to lean my way. Keep winning, and they'll lean further. Keep winning, and they'll be completely mine. Then, even if I tell them we're going to win the Champions League, they won't doubt it for a second."

Clemente, who had known Wang for years, remained skeptical. "I don't want to say this, but you’ll be thirty-eight on the seventeenth of next month..."

Wang didn't care. "Age isn't the issue. As long as I can score, age is irrelevant."

Clemente shifted the conversation. "Anyway, I finally found you a house in Northumberland that meets all your requirements. It’s expensive, but it has no other flaws."

"Money isn't a flaw," Wang replied. "When can I move in?"

"In a few days. Once we get your things moved from Manchester, you can settle in."

"Perfect. It's in your hands."

Wang continued to watch the match, even though the result was already clear. He didn't turn off the television until the final whistle blew, and his agent, Clemente, soon bid him farewell.