[666666] [Holy shit, they actually won! Fuck, Saint Es!] [????????] [????????] [Serious question: does this 3-2 mean the China national football team has made the quarterfinals? I remember this is the World Cup, not the AFC Asian Cup, right?]
"Wow!"
Escribá ran straight at Tang Ye and jumped onto him.
The China national football team manager wasn't particularly light, but for a professional athlete like Tang Ye, carrying him was still easy enough.
But...
Tang Ye was truly exhausted now.
"Fuck."
With a cry, Tang Ye fell to the ground along with Escribá.
"Haha!"
Escribá seemed even more excited than Tang Ye. Lying on the grass, he raised both hands overhead. "Vamos!!!"
"Fuck, calm down!"
Tang Ye shoved his coach and scrambled to his feet. "You're covered in sweat. It's all sticking to me, damn it."
"Hey, aren't you sweating more than I am? Your entire shirt is soaked!"
"I'm the one playing the match, so isn't it normal for me to sweat? You're a desk jockey—how are you sweating this much?"
"Haha! Fuck!"
After cursing at him, Tang Ye stopped arguing with Escribá and went to the sideline to wash his hands with bottled water.
Click, click!
Click click click!
At least fifteen photographers stood before him, carrying cameras and snapping furiously at Tang Ye's head.
He clenched his right fist and pounded his chest, then held up one finger toward the cameras. Tang Ye wrote his name into the photographers' lenses.
"Tang Ye!"
"Tang Ye!"
"China national football team, fucking awesome!!!!"
"Fuck, Tang Ye, you're incredible!"
Thinking of all the comforting things the fans had shouted to him at the end of the first half, Tang Ye felt terrible now. He took the initiative and walked toward the