The Legend of Number Ten

It had almost gone in.

The ball had struck the goal line without fully crossing it.

Courtois quickly smothered the ball.

Even so, it left the Juventus players drenched in cold sweat.

"Every last one of you, pay attention!"

Conte shouted from the touchline, "I can forgive you for failing to stop Kevin, but if you can't even mark Van Persie and Torres, then get the hell off the pitch!!!"

Conte's fiery temper had never changed.

When he coached Tottenham Hotspur, he had even blasted his own players to reporters for being selfish.

Mourinho would have said something like there were one or two bad apples among them, but Conte directly said all eleven players on the pitch were playing for themselves.

Perhaps that was simply Conte's way. He had never cared to hide anything.

The match had only just begun, yet he was already finding the defensive problems unbearable.

Barzagli's mistimed header had nearly cost the team a goal.

Of course, he deliberately ignored how quick and disguised Huang Kaiwen's pass had been.

"Wake up! This is going to be a tough match," Conte roared. "Cut off the middle! Don't let them find any chances!"

Van Persie and Torres exchanged a glance.

Both the Dutchman and the Spaniard spoke Italian well.

The exact same expression appeared on their faces—contempt.

Van Persie immediately turned away.

But his disdain for Conte did not lessen in the slightest.

The moment he heard Conte's instructions, he understood that the coach wanted to sever the connection between Milan's midfield and flanks, thereby limiting Huang Kaiwen.

If Huang Kaiwen did not get the ball, he naturally would not pose a threat.

That was why Van Persie had worn that expression.

You wanted to stop Huang Kaiwen from getting the ball, but Huang Kaiwen could drop