Zhang Kuang had never expected that, overnight, he would become famous not only in Ligue 1 football circles but even more widely known in private circles of sex and scandal. Good news never left the house, while bad news traveled a thousand miles.
So the next day, when Zhang Kuang left the four women behind, came out of the hotel, and headed for Auxerre, his agent called.
"Oh, Zhang, I hear you stole the show yesterday, swept a whole crowd of girls off their feet at the party, then took on four at once and brought four women home to see your cat do backflips?"
"..." Zhang Kuang was driving and nearly slammed on the brakes. "Wait, Jonathan, word spread that fast? Wasn't it supposed to be a very private party?"
"Private? That's relative, that... no, don't change the subject. Zhang, you're only eighteen. I know you athletes have endless energy and hormones off the charts, but you can't spend your energy on women's bellies. You need to spend it on the pitch."
"I know. That's why I slaughter everyone on the pitch. I only left a tiny bit of energy on women's bellies. I know you're going to give me examples of talented players who ended up wasting themselves away on women's bellies.
"But I'm not them. Trust me, Jonathan, women only give me an endless supply of fuel, rather than drain my energy. The more women I play with, the stronger I get. That's me-a firework of a different color..."
"Oh, shit, bullshit, Zhang, you... you... you're going to destroy yourself..."
"Listen, Jonathan, I know you mean well. Plenty of players really have ruined themselves on women's bellies. But like I said, I'm different. You might not believe me, and I can't explain it to you. Don't worry. You don't need to judge me by my everyday life. You should judge me by my performances on the pitch, shouldn't you?"
On the other end of the phone, Jonathan was speechless for a moment. Thinking it over, as an agent, he only had a duty to offer advice, not to force anyone to do anything. There was nothing about that in their agency agreement.
"Ah, kid, you're going to ruin yourself. You'd better look out for yourself."
Jonathan felt worn out and no longer wanted to keep advising him. Let him do as he pleased.
After hanging up on his agent, Zhang Kuang gave a helpless smile and continued driving toward the club.
Why a helpless smile? Because he didn't want things to be this way either. Who had told him to use a cheat like this? His private life would definitely be exposed in the future, so he might as well get his agent and some of his acquaintances to accept it sooner.
There was no need to hide it. For a footballer, what really mattered was brilliance on the pitch. As long as you could score in every match, the fans would accept it even if you played bridegroom every day. They would only say you had boundless energy and really knew how to enjoy yourself.
When Zhang Kuang reached Auxerre's training ground, he was three minutes ahead of the scheduled time, cutting it remarkably fine. Of course, he was also the last to arrive.
He hadn't deliberately timed it that closely-the main reason was traffic, along with the call from his agent affecting his driving speed.
After parking, Zhang Kuang pushed open the dressing-room door.
Grichting was sitting on a bench tying his laces. Seeing him come in, he grinned. "Well, finished watching those four cats do backflips?"
A roar of laughter immediately filled the dressing room.
"Oh, everyone knows? Not bad. The cats were pretty well-behaved." Without a change in expression, Zhang Kuang walked to his locker and began changing into his training kit. "Just a bit too much cat hair. Made me sneeze several times in the middle of the night."
"Wasn't it your other head doing the sneezing? Could it still spray? Four times in a row?" Mignot leaned over from beside him.
Another burst of laughter.
Oliech came closer and asked in a low voice, "Four? Seriously? Can your body take it?"
"Your little brother here is incredibly powerful in that department. So powerful you can't even imagine it. I've just always kept a low profile. After all, it would affect my image too much." Zhang Kuang patted his shoulder, sounding as casual as if he were saying the weather was nice.
Pedretti came in from outside and clapped his hands. "All right, stop messing around. Zhang, the coach wants you in his office once you're changed."
"Hey, Zhang, the head coach probably wants to learn your super skill for servicing four women in one night."
"Even if Zhang Kuang teaches him how, the coach's body probably can't handle it."
"Hahaha..."
Zhang Kuang rolled his eyes at his teammates, made a show of wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead, and nodded.
Then even louder laughter erupted throughout the dressing room.
The head coach's office was at the end of the corridor on the second floor of the training center.
As Zhang Kuang went upstairs, he saw assistant coach Stéphane Éric standing by the door, talking to someone on the phone. Seeing him come up, the assistant coach gave him a look that said, "You're on your own," then walked away with his phone.
Zhang Kuang knocked on the door.
"Come in."
Fernandez sat behind his desk, a cup of coffee that had already gone cold in front of him. Several documents lay spread across the desk. The one on top was next month's fixture list, densely covered in red marker.
Fernandez looked up at Zhang Kuang. Without speaking immediately, he pointed to the chair opposite.
Zhang Kuang sat down.
The silence lasted a little over ten seconds. Outside the window, his teammates had already begun jogging to warm up on the training pitch. The assistant coach's whistle drifted faintly through the glass.
"Went to a party last night?" Fernandez finally spoke, his tone betraying neither pleasure nor anger.
"Yes."
"And took four women away with you?"
"Yes."
"Hiss!"
Fernandez picked up his coffee cup and took a sip-the cold coffee was evidently bitter enough to make him frown-then set it down again.
"Zhang, I've coached a lot of players," he said, looking into Zhang Kuang's eyes. "Plenty had talent, but not many made it. Do you know why?"
"Not enough self-discipline," Zhang Kuang answered without hesitation.
"If you know that, why do it anyway? You're not an ordinary newcomer now. You're the focus of the media. People are watching, writing about, and spreading word of your every move. Do you think no one knows what happened last night? Do you think those reporters are all blind?"
Zhang Kuang fell silent for two seconds, then raised his head and met Fernandez's gaze.
"Coach, I understand everything you're saying. But I guarantee you two things-
"First, however I live my private life, it won't affect my form in training or matches. Look at my training data from the past two weeks and more. Which figure has declined? Do you think dealing with a few women in one night will leave my legs weak the next day? I run faster than anyone on the pitch, don't I?
"Second, if there's a single match coming up in which I don't score, or if my form clearly drops, you can send me straight to the bench, or even the reserves. You won't hear a word of objection from me."
Fernandez paused, not having expected Zhang Kuang to make a promise like that.
In truth, Zhang Kuang had only made that guarantee because he had no other choice. He could fob the head coach off this time, but what about next time? And the time after that? He might as well use his ability to make the head coach accept his chaotic private life.
Fernandez stared at Zhang Kuang for several seconds. The authority peculiar to an old-school coach in his eyes was like a ruler, trying to measure how much of this young man's confidence and arrogance was real gold, and how much was empty flame.
"You make it sound easy." The veteran coach's voice sank. "One match without a goal and you go on the bench? Do you think football is an arithmetic problem? A striker might fail to score because the midfield hasn't supplied good passes, because the opposition's defense has targeted him too effectively, or because the whole team is out of form-making such sweeping promises, are you trying to shoulder all the responsibility yourself?"
Zhang Kuang froze for a moment, not expecting Fernandez to say anything like that. He had thought the veteran coach would continue scolding him, but from his tone, it sounded as though he was worried about Zhang Kuang "taking everything on himself."
"Coach, I'm not shouldering responsibility. I have confidence in my ability."
Fernandez leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and remained silent for a long time.
"Zhang, I won't interfere in your private life. That's your business, not something I can control." When he finally spoke, his tone was a little softer than before. "But there's one thing-if your form drops on the pitch, I won't give you a second chance. I don't care how many goals you score in a match. I only want one thing from you: when you're on the pitch, give it everything you've got."
"Understood."
"All right. Go out and train."
Zhang Kuang stood, but as he reached the door, Fernandez called him back.
"Zhang."
"Yes?"
"Our next France Cup match is against Sedan. A Ligue 2 side, not particularly strong, but you're still starting. Don't let me down."
Zhang Kuang turned, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.
"Coach, don't worry. Next match, I'll score even more goals."
January 26, the France Cup round of 32.
Auxerre hosted Sedan.
Stade Abbé-Deschamps was already packed an hour before kickoff. White shirts filled all twenty-four thousand seats, while banners and flags in the stands snapped in the cold winter wind.
"Welcome, viewers, to our live coverage of the 2009-2010 France Cup round of 32! Auxerre are at home to Sedan!"
From the studio in Beiping, Liu Jianhong's voice traveled by satellite signal across all of China.