After the match, Oliver was repeatedly thrown into the air by his ecstatic teammates, and his legs were still slightly weak when he landed. The jersey he wore was already soaked with sweat, sticking tightly to his back. The tide of celebration receded slightly, and the players began to seek out opponents to greet.
Oliver composed himself, his gaze searching among the disheartened blue figures, and he saw Sane adjusting his socks. He walked towards Sane. Sane looked up, the winger, known for his speed and dribbling, now had fatigue and disappointment written all over his face, but after recognizing Oliver, he still politely nodded.
"Hi, Leroy," Oliver began in fluent German, "You played great. That last breakthrough and cross was too fast."
Sane managed a bitter smile, tugging at the corner of his mouth, a response to this post-match respect.
"You too, Oliver, that header… very calm." Sane was referring to the winning goal.
"It was an honor to play against you," Oliver said, pointing to his own jersey, which was already crumpled and disheveled.
"Can we… exchange?"
Sane was taken aback, probably not expecting the opposing core player to actively seek him out for an exchange. But he quickly nodded and began to take off his blue jersey.
"Of course." The two exchanged their jerseys. Sane's jersey was also damp, carrying the residual warmth from the intense confrontation.
With the exchange complete, they briefly shook hands, and Sane murmured, "Good luck to you all," before turning and walking towards the locker room, his back appearing somewhat forlorn. Oliver draped Sane's blue Manchester City jersey over his shoulder and let out a long sigh of relief, as if a heavy burden had been lifted.
He turned around, ready to walk towards his teammates who were still celebrating on the sidelines. Just then, a hand gently, yet with undeniable weight, patted his left shoulder. Oliver instinctively stopped and turned his head to look. A gleaming bald head came into view.
It was Pep Guardiola. The renowned Coach's face showed no post-match dejection; instead, it held a peculiar gentleness and an inquiring smile. He didn't even wait for Oliver to speak. The hand resting on Oliver's shoulder gently squeezed Oliver's trapezius muscle, which was slightly taut from the intense exercise. The force was moderate, and the action was as natural as an old Coach checking on his beloved disciple's condition.
"Hey, kid," Guardiola's English carried a heavy Spanish accent, his eyes appearing particularly deep under the stadium's harsh lights, with a hint of playfulness, "How did you feel about this match? No muscle cramps, right? I saw your last move clearly, especially that confrontation with Otamendi, you used the subtle strength of your core, very smart."
Oliver was a bit bewildered by the sudden intimacy and opening remarks, and could only instinctively shake his head:
"Uh… Thank you, Mr. Pep, I'm fine, I… didn't cramp."
"Haha, it's good to be young." Guardiola's smile widened a bit, his hand still resting on Oliver's shoulder, his body leaning slightly forward, and his voice lowered, with an almost teasing tone, "So? Kid, have you secretly counted how many goals you've scored this season? Hmm? Let me guess… hmm, League… 27? Champions League, including that header that killed us, 16?" He winked slyly, "Bundesliga and Champions League top scorer, how many more matches? Even those old guys at Bayern will be jealous. As for the European Golden Boy award… honestly, I don't think there's any suspense left." His tone was half-teasing, half-sincere admiration, "For you and your Hoffenheim teammates to play like this, it's really… tsk tsk, incredible." He smacked his lips, looking at the Hoffenheim players celebrating not far away.
Oliver was a bit embarrassed by Guardiola's praise, and the flush that had just faded from his face due to exercise reappeared slightly. He could only grin, letting out a couple of simple-minded "hehe" laughs, unsure of what to say. Guardiola's smile receded a bit, and his gaze became more serious.
He tightened the arm around Oliver's shoulder, lowering his voice even further, as if sharing a secret: "Listen, kid, I know very well that Hoffenheim absolutely cannot keep you. Summer is coming…" He paused slightly, observing Oliver's expression, "Have you ever thought about… coming to Manchester City to play?"
Guardiola noticed Oliver's suddenly widened pupils. So, without giving Oliver any time to think or breathe, he quickened his pace, with an undeniable allure: "Money, we have plenty, and we can offer you a top contract worthy of your value. Teammates?"
He gestured with his chin towards De Bruyne and others who were leaving the field in dejection not far away, "Look, Kevin, Aguero, David, Leroy… you've seen them all, world-class level! Even more pure and dedicated to football than some so-called top giants I've seen! Here, you'll play with the best of the best, and together, think about how to play the best football! Most importantly,"
He looked directly into Oliver's eyes, speaking clearly, word by word: "Oliver, I promise you, if you come, as long as you can perform as you have this season, or even half as well, you will definitely go further than you would at any other team! Here, you will absolutely be the core! In my attacking system, there will be a position exclusively for you. Think about it, at Etihad… enjoying the feeling of creating and winning together with the best teammates in Europe? How about it? Kid."
Facing the legendary Coach's burning gaze and almost nakedly direct invitation at such close proximity. Oliver felt a rush of heat to his head, his cheeks burning. Immense surprise, a subtle hint of vanity, an instinctive yearning for the atmosphere of a powerful team, and the unwavering plan in his heart…
All sorts of complex emotions instantly filled Oliver's chest. He could even smell Guardiola's faint cologne. Oliver opened his mouth, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously, his face flushed, feeling as if his tongue was tied, and finally only managed a muffled syllable:
"Uh… Mr. Pep… I…"
The "I'm going to Arsenal" that he had prepared was ultimately stuck in his throat.
Faced with Guardiola's enthusiastic direct invitation, Oliver was truly at a loss.
Just as Oliver was so embarrassed he wished he could find a hole to crawl into, and Guardiola, with eyes like torches, was preparing to add more fuel to the fire…
"Hey, Mr. Pep!" A voice with a relaxed smile, coming from far away and getting closer, interrupted the delicate atmosphere between the two.
Nagelsmann strode over, the flush of victory still on his face, but a teasing smile already on his lips. He seemed to have noticed the commotion here earlier and had specifically come to help out. He naturally placed one hand on Oliver's other shoulder, forming a 'protective' stance, and met Guardiola's gaze. Nagelsmann, in an exaggerated tone, as if complaining yet also joking, pointed at Guardiola,
"No way, Mr. Pep, what does this mean? In front of me, the Coach, are you openly seducing my trusted beloved player like this? That's not very gentlemanly. We just finished playing, and you're poaching in front of me. Your moves are too fast, aren't they?" Nagelsmann looked at Guardiola, teasingly.
Guardiola was momentarily stunned by Nagelsmann's sudden appearance, then burst into laughter, his hand still resting on Oliver's shoulder. He looked at the colleague and opponent, much younger than himself, who had just outsmarted him tactically, and his eyes, free of the tension of the match, were filled with admiration.
"My Julian! Please!" Guardiola laughed openly, with genuine admiration, "I can't help but be tempted! Take a good look at this treasure you've personally nurtured! A talent like this, with such a performance, will shine anywhere! I'm just… well… offering this kid a bigger stage?"
He released his arm from around Oliver, raising both hands in a surrender gesture, but the action looked more like deliberate flattery.
"But I have to say, your tactics today were truly excellent," Guardiola said to Nagelsmann, his joking tone gone, replaced by a sincere one, even carrying a hint of respect, like meeting a worthy opponent during a post-match review, "Clear thinking, firm execution, especially the on-the-spot adjustments in the final stages… I saw your ideas, and I felt the pressure from you." He paused, his gaze sweeping back and forth between the young and handsome Nagelsmann and the still slightly flushed, somewhat awkward Oliver, as if looking at a beautiful painting representing the future of German football, "Tsk tsk, you two, master and apprentice, are both remarkable. This season… no matter how far you go, you deserve the greatest respect."
He said this to both Nagelsmann and Oliver. Finally, Guardiola's gaze returned precisely to Oliver. He extended his hand, this time not to embrace his shoulder, but as if treating an equally matched opponent. Below Oliver's right shoulder blade, he patted twice forcefully, the sound crisp and powerful, carrying the expectation of an elder for a highly admired junior and a touch of reluctant regret.
"Oliver," his voice was clear and solemn, with the meaning of a parting message, "I hope you seriously consider my invitation. Manchester City's door is always open to talented young people like you." He repeated again, his tone incredibly serious, "If you decide to leave the Bundesliga and play in the Premier League, remember, you must include Manchester City on your list of options." He turned slightly, glancing at the magnificent but somewhat quiet Etihad Stadium, "Believe me, it's really great here, you'll like it." Guardiola's eyes sparkled with passion and sincerity.
Having said that, Guardiola smiled and nodded at Nagelsmann, then gave Oliver, who was still processing everything, a meaningful look, and without further delay, strode towards the home team's locker room. Although they lost, Guardiola's back remained incredibly straight.
The clamor on the sidelines seemed to quiet for a moment in that small area, leaving only the faint sound of his dress shoes on the grass, as Nagelsmann and Oliver stood in place. Oliver watched Guardiola disappear into the entrance of the player tunnel. He only felt that the shoulder that had just been patted still seemed to retain the warmth and strength of the legendary Coach's hand.
"Tsk," Nagelsmann also looked at Guardiola's retreating figure, shaking his head with a half-smile, and muttered softly, "Pep is like that… he poaches without batting an eye." He squeezed the hand on Oliver's shoulder, pulling his thoughts back.
Nagelsmann turned around, facing Oliver, and deliberately teased him.
"How does it feel, kid?" He deliberately raised an eyebrow at Oliver, teasingly, "Being personally invited in public by a famous European Coach, there aren't many young players in all of Europe who can make him put down his status and speak like that, you know."
Oliver touched his still somewhat flushed face; the complex emotions from earlier were diluted significantly by his Coach's familiar teasing. He smiled sheepishly, his voice light and with a hint of relief: "Hehe… Coach… I…"
"Alright, alright," Nagelsmann interrupted him, his smile full of understanding and trust. He pushed Oliver's back forcefully, towards the red tide where his teammates were gathered,
"Go enjoy the victory with your teammates! They are the ones who fought alongside you all the way! Today, you are all heroes! As for the rest… we'll talk about it later!"
"Yes, Coach!"
Oliver nodded heavily, the fog in his mind cleared, and his goal became clear again. He held Sane's jersey and ran with big strides towards the still wildly celebrating crowd.
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