Germany, Hoffenheim's training base.
Today's training session had entered the tactical drill phase. As soon as the assistant coach's whistle fell silent, Nagelsmann's characteristic rapid-fire speech echoed from the sidelines, his tactical board flipping quickly in his hands.
"Gnabry! Run! The receiving point is in the penetrating flank! Don't wait! Don't wait!"
"Demirbay! Push your position up! Compress! Compress their space!"
"Oliver! Very good! One more time! Your choice was spot on!"
… …
Oliver had just completed a textbook-perfect flank support, receiving a pass from Grillitsch. After attracting the opposing midfielder's defensive attention, he wasted no time, sending a disguised through ball that pierced the artificial "defense" and accurately found Uth's feet as he sprinted forward.This entire sequence was executed in one smooth motion, so fast that even the video analyst, especially responsible for filming training videos, almost couldn't keep up.
"Beautiful, Oliver!" Gnabry ran over, vigorously ruffling Oliver's sweat-soaked hair.
Amiri whistled with a smile. Oliver didn't speak, merely quickly wiped away the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, a slight curve forming at the corner of his lips, his gaze fixed intently on his mentor on the sidelines. Nagelsmann unreservedly gave him a thumbs-up, the approval and trust in his eyes almost palpable. He flipped a page on his tactical board and began to set up the positioning for the next offensive-defensive transition. Oliver quickly reined in his smile, continuing to listen intently, his mind rapidly constructing the space-cutting schemes requested by the coach.
At Hoffenheim, he was now one of the crucial starting points for tactics, a young mind that the head coach relied on without hesitation. Every encouragement from his teammates, every precise guidance and demand from Nagelsmann, nourished him like rain and dew, making him feel incredibly needed, growing steadily and clearly with every step. Just then, a phone ringtone, out of sync with the intense rhythm of the training ground's fierce competition, came from the outermost pocket of his sports bag placed on the sidelines.
Oliver frowned. Almost no one called him during training hours. Only a few of his closest people usually called his mobile phone directly. Training paused for a few seconds due to this small interlude. Nagelsmann also heard it and looked in his direction.
"Oliver, go take the call. We'll wait for you." Nagelsmann raised his hand, signaling everyone to rest.
Oliver nodded, apologized, "Sorry, Coach, I'll be quick," and then jogged quickly to the sidelines.
He fumbled for his phone in his bag, and the number displayed on the screen made him pause. It was Oliver's Father's number. Olivers Father rarely called him during training unless it was something particularly important or urgent. Oliver's heart inexplicably tightened slightly, afraid it was something serious.
He walked to a secluded spot outside the barbed wire fence at the edge of the training ground and answered the call: "Dad? Why are you calling now? Has something happened?"
On the other end of the line, Olivers Father's voice today carried some hesitation: "Son, sorry to interrupt your training, but there's something important I think I need to tell you right away."
"Mhm, Dad, tell me, I'm listening." Oliver's heart tightened even more.
"Just now…" Olivers Father paused slightly, as if organizing his words,
"Paris Saint-Germain called. Their youth academy director, Pierre, called, conveying the mean of their sporting director, Henrique."
Paris Saint-Germain?! These words were like cold stones, unexpectedly smashing into Oliver's ears, instantly making his fingertips, holding the phone, feel a chill. That name, which once represented the starting point of a dream, but ultimately became a cold endpoint. Olivers Father spoke slowly, clearly relaying Pierre's discourse, which centered on "buyback" and carried an almost imperceptible hint of arrogance. He emphasized Paris's top platform, their commitment to key development, and the so-called "return to the big family."
Oliver listened quietly as his father relayed the words. After hearing this relay, a brief illusion seemed to appear in Oliver's eyes:
'Amidst the deafening cheers at Prince Park Stadium, he wore a blue jersey embroidered with three gold stripes. Neymar, after a lightning-fast breakthrough on the left, squared the ball. Mbappé, like lightning, cut into the box from the right, drawing defenders, while he himself, in the center, received Neymar's pass and calmly slotted the ball past the onrushing goalkeeper…'
What a beautiful scene that was. But this illusion lasted less than a second. The next moment, countless fragments of memory, forming a strong contrast, instantly tore it all apart. In his memory, outside Henrique's office, he held a thin evaluation report.
On it, a few brief strokes, no flowery words, only a cold conclusion and the final verdict: Dismissed.
That day, he didn't even get a chance to be loaned to a lower League. Packing the pitifully few personal items in that small locker and walking out of the training base gate where he had poured all his youthful passion and sweat, the cool evening breeze of Paris blew across his face.
It was an afternoon Oliver never wanted to recall again. The coldness, disappointment, and self-doubt brought by that experience of being completely denied, of being discarded like an old shoe, had once suffocated him. Even on this sunny day, when that name was brought up again, the feeling of being abandoned instantly returned, clear and stinging. Oliver was stunned. He held the phone, simultaneously staring blankly at his current comrades on the field.
At the center of the field, his teammates, who had paused, were gathered in twos and threes. Gnabry was saying something to Kaderábek, gesturing and laughing; Uth was tilting his head, gulping down an energy drink; Rupp, Baumann, and a few other veterans were huddled together, seemingly discussing the recent attack; his mentor, Nagelsmann, was surrounded by his assistant coaching team, pointing at the tactical board and discussing intensely.
This was a vibrant, hardworking, upward-moving, mutually trusting collective. On the other end of the phone, Olivers Father's voice continued: "Son, that's all they said. This call was mainly to ask for your willingness. They seem very 'presumptuous,' thinking their proposal couldn't possibly be refused."
Olivers Father's voice carried a hint of subtle displeasure towards Paris Saint-Germain, "But I thought I had to ask you first, after all…"
Oliver didn't quite hear what Olivers Father said next. On the phone, Olivers Father was still asking for his thoughts: "Son, are you listening? What do you think…"
Oliver suddenly snapped back to reality. On the training ground, Nagelsmann seemed to notice his silence and solemn expression, casting a concerned glance. Amiri, in the distance, mouthed "What's wrong?" to him. These were the people, this team in blue and white jerseys, this incredibly young head coach who generously gave him a chance to play…
This rural club in southern Germany, at his lowest point in life, when he was almost without a team to play for, was where he was welcomed with open arms. It gave him playing opportunities to prove himself, to finally gain a foothold, and only then did today's breakthrough come! His mentor even personally tailored tactics for him, granting him freedom and responsibility on the field, meticulously sculpting him like an unpolished jade. This trust, effort, and recognition were the true sources of strength that lifted him, supporting Oliver step by step to where he was today. That place that had cruelly abandoned him, unwilling to even bestow upon him a chance to prove his worth, now had the audacity to put on an air of a superior benefactor,
And casually use a phrase like "buyback" and "key development" to try and call him back to that place of heartbreak? Just because they are called "Paris Saint-Germain"? In an instant, all hesitation towards Paris Saint-Germain, and that instinctive fantasy born from the aura of a prestigious club, were washed away and crushed by a strong sense of belonging and deeper gratitude.
At this moment, Oliver's emotions churned violently, like boiling water. When he spoke again, his voice was without a tremor, carrying a decisive resoluteness: "Dad, please reply to them for me. Just say…" His voice deepened, each word as if carved with a chisel, he said calmly, "I, Oliver, my personal will, is to unequivocally and unreservedly reject any proposal from Paris Saint-Germain."
Upon hearing this, Olivers Father on the other end of the line clearly paused. But Oliver didn't stop at all; he wanted to make himself clear: "Dad, you must reject them very clearly, with no room for maneuver. This is my decision. I will never consider returning to a place that so easily and completely dismissed and abandoned me. No matter what conditions they offer or what promises they make, I will not look back. I understand why Paris gave up on me back then, so I also believe Paris will understand why I don't want to go back."
Oliver was afraid his father would worry too much about his emotional state, so he then said: "Also, Dad, I hope you and Mom know that I'm doing very well in Hoffenheim now, truly very well. Here, I have a coach who trusts me, teammates who care about me, and fans who like me. Everyone here is genuinely helping me grow. I am very grateful for all the opportunities given to me here. I cherish everything I have now. I want to stay here, to repay this kindness, to do my utmost for Hoffenheim, and to play every game well! This is my only thought right now, and it's the most genuine one."
After speaking in one breath, Oliver felt a heavy, immeasurable boulder that had been pressing on his chest for a long time, crash to the ground. The shadow of abandonment that had once clung to him like a maggot was powerfully dispelled for the first time. On the other end of the phone, there was silence.
A few seconds later, Olivers Father's voice came again. In that voice, there was no longer the unease it carried when relaying Paris's intentions earlier. Instead, there was a sense of relief and satisfaction. This was the peace of mind and pride of a father seeing his son truly understand the importance of gratitude.
"Good!" Olivers Father's voice was loud and full of emotion, "Son, you spoke well, Dad understands! Dad will reject them for you, and he will reject them unequivocally and unreservedly!"
As a traditional Chinese father, Olivers Father had never been absent in teaching Oliver about "gratitude" throughout his upbringing. A drop of kindness should be repaid with a gushing spring; this was also his consistent principle. He knew the arrogance and snobbery behind Paris's so-called buyback, and he knew even more how profound Hoffenheim's kindness was to his son in his time of need.
Olivers Father's voice was noticeably more emotional as he said: "The most important thing in being a person is to know gratitude. Hoffenheim provided timely help when we were in the most difficult situation, and now the coach values you so much. This kindness is more important than anything."
"Mhm! Thank you, Dad!" Oliver's nose felt a little sore, but his heart was filled with a warm current.
Oliver was not swayed by the aura of Paris's prestigious club, nor was he lost by their casual promise of key development. He clearly remembered who extended a hand when he hit rock bottom. He cherished this hard-won trust and friendship, and he protected it in an almost stubborn way.
"Train well, continue to play seriously, don't get distracted! Dad will convey it for you right away!" Olivers Father's tone returned to his usual efficiency.
"Mhm! Then I'll continue training, Dad."
Oliver hung up the phone and stood in place, exhaling a long, soft breath, as if releasing years of pent-up feelings.
"Oliver! Are you done with the call?!" Gnabry shouted loudly to Oliver, waving his hand at him.
"Done, I'm coming!" Oliver waved back and jogged to rejoin his teammates, continuing to focus on training.
Paris Saint-Germain, the aura of a prestigious club—none of that mattered anymore. This training base belonging to Hoffenheim, right before his eyes, was the battlefield he would strive for now, and in the future he had decided upon. Young Oliver cherished everything here immensely and loved it deeply.
...
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