Laughter and the pop of champagne bottles still echoed in the locker room after the match. Gnabry found a bottle of mineral water from somewhere and, when Oliver wasn't paying attention, poured it all over him from behind, eliciting a burst of laughter.
"Welcome to professional football, kid!" Vogt laughed, patting him on the back.
"Four goals in your debut, you're going to steal all of us old guys' livelihoods!"
Oliver wiped the water from his face, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looked down at his phone, the screen already filled with unread messages from his Paris youth team teammates, childhood friends, and even a few acquaintances from when he played street football in England. Just as he was about to reply to each one, Kramarić put an arm around his shoulder: "Oliver, don't rush to look at your phone. You're the star tonight!"
Kramarić said, handing him a sports drink: "A toast with drinks, to our super rookie!"
The celebration in the locker room lasted for nearly an hour, until the fitness coach reminded everyone it was time to rest. The August night still carried the lingering warmth of summer; a gentle breeze cooled his sweat-damp hair. He took a deep breath; the adrenaline rush from the field still lingered in his body, his steps as light as if he were walking on clouds. As soon as he pushed open his dorm room door, his phone rang. The words "Dad" on the screen warmed his heart.
"Son!" His father's booming voice came from the other end of the line, with the sound of the match replay's Commentator audible in the background.
"Four goals! Four goals! My son scored four goals in his German Cup debut!" Olivers Father's voice trembled slightly with excitement.
"Did you see the replay of your world-class goal? The way the ball dipped in the air, it was like it was designed!"
Oliver held the phone between his ear and shoulder, laughing as he changed into slippers: "Dad, calm down. You're shouting so loud my ears hurt."
"Calm down? How can I calm down!" Olivers Father paced back and forth on the other end of the phone, the sound of his leather shoes on the floor clearly audible.
"Do you know how many people messaged me today? My German client, who loves football, called me directly today, asking me, 'Will your son consider joining Bayern in the future?'!"
Oliver couldn't help but laugh, placing his sports bag on the chair: "That's if Bayern wants me, hahahahaha…"
Olivers Father suddenly became serious.
"Also, the run for the first goal, the calm push shot for the second, and that assist—these weren't luck. Son, your dad has been in the foreign trade business for so many years; I've never misjudged a person."
His voice became proud again: "If you keep playing like this, becoming a star is only a matter of time. Your old man being your agent will bring me great honor!"
Oliver walked to the window, gazing at the lights of the training ground in the distance. His father's words brought a warmth to his heart, but also a hint of pressure.
"Dad, it's not every match you can score four goals. Today… was indeed a bit of an overperformance."
There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the line, then a burst of hearty laughter: "Of course! Of course! I'm not senile yet."
Oliver's Father's voice suddenly lowered: "But son, do you know what makes me most proud? It's not those four goals, but your choices every time you get the ball. That backheel pass, and the change of rhythm when breaking through—these aren't just guesswork."
Oliver felt his eyes welling up.
"Well… our coach specifically told me before the match to observe the defenders' center of gravity more."
"Exactly!" Olivers Father's voice was suddenly interrupted by another familiar female voice, "Oh, your Oliver Mom can't wait to snatch the phone."
"Son?" Oliver Mom's gentle voice came through, with Oliver's Father's faint whisper of "I haven't finished talking yet" in the background.
"Are you tired? Oliver Mom saw you were running out of steam at the end of the match."
Oliver rubbed his somewhat sore thighs: "I'm okay, Mum, just a bit of a cramp. The team doctor said it's nothing."
"That's good." Oliver's Mom's voice was filled with concern, "Is the weather still hot in Germany? Remember to drink more water after training. Have you finished the chrysanthemum tea I sent you?"
"Not yet, I'll brew it tomorrow." Oliver felt a pang of guilt, remembering the unopened tea bag in his cupboard.
"Don't just say tomorrow," Oliver's Mom chided, "You're a professional player now; you need to learn to take care of yourself. Oh, and are you keeping up with your German lessons?"
At the mention of German, Oliver breathed a sigh of relief.
"German isn't hard. It has similarities to our Chinese grammar. Besides the difficult vocabulary, it's quite easy to learn."
"As long as you can learn it, that's good." Oliver's Mom's voice suddenly became serious, "Playing football is a youth-dependent career; knowledge is truly yours. I doesn't oppose you playing football, but you absolutely cannot neglect your academic studies, understand?"
"I know, Mom," Oliver obediently replied. This feeling of being nagged made him feel especially at ease.
Oliver's Mom's voice softened again: "Also, if training is too tiring, tell the coach. Don't push yourself too hard. I saw you get hit several times today…"
"Mom, that's normal contact," Oliver carefully replied to his mother, "Professional football is like that."
The faint sounds of his parents arguing came from the other end of the phone, and finally, Oliver's Father took back the receiver: "Son, your mother is just too nervous. Also…"
His tone suddenly became serious, "Champions League qualifiers, has your coach revealed any news?"
Oliver sighed: "Dad, you know I can't say anything about that. Those are team secrets."
"Right, right, professional ethics." Oliver's Father quickly corrected himself, "I was just asking casually. Okay, I won't disturb your rest. Remember…"
Oliver smiled and finished his sentence.
"I know, remember to drink water, attend classes on time, take care of your body. I remember everything, Dad. You and Oliver Mom should also rest early and don't stay up late watching replays."
After ending the call with his family, Oliver could finally get some proper rest. He walked into the bathroom, and the warm water washed away the fatigue and grass clippings from his body. The mirror gradually blurred with steam, but he could still see the smile on his lips. After drying his hair, Oliver found the packet of chrysanthemum tea his Oliver Mom had sent him from the cupboard and carefully placed it into a mug. The moment the hot water poured in, a faint, refreshing aroma filled the air. He held the cup and walked to his desk, opening his school textbooks. He always remembered his parents' words and always listened carefully.
…
The next morning, as soon as Oliver stepped into the training base, he felt an unusual atmosphere. The German media reacted quickly. Several unfamiliar media vans were parked in Hoffenheim's parking lot, and a few strangers wearing press passes were gathered around the perimeter of the training ground. When they saw him approach, they immediately raised their cameras, ready to capture the daily life of this new star.
Oliver instinctively pulled down the brim of his cap and quickened his pace, slipping in through a side door. In the locker room, teammates were gathered in small groups, each holding that day's sports newspaper.
"Look at this! Oliver!" Gnabry waved a copy of Kicker, its front page prominently featuring a large photo of Oliver celebrating his goal with a knee slide, titled "17-Year-Old Genius Shines in German Cup! Hoffenheim's New Star Emerges."
Polanski whistled, pushing Bild in front of Oliver: "They're calling you 'Hoffenheim Rocket,' saying you're even more fierce than Gnabry was back then."
"Nonsense, he's much more fierce than me," Gnabry feigned anger, grabbing a towel and throwing it over, "I didn't score four goals in my debut!"
A burst of laughter erupted in the locker room. Oliver took the newspaper and scanned it, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.
The exaggerated headlines made his ears burn: "Nagelsmann's Secret Weapon," "Strongest German Cup Debut," "Next Hundred Million Euro Man?"
He handed the newspaper back to Polanski: "Isn't this a bit too exaggerated… The opponent was just a German 3rd League team."
"Don't be modest, kid," Captain Vogt walked over and patted him on the back, "Even Süddeutsche Zeitung gave you a dedicated column."
He pointed to the thickest newspaper on the table, "They analyzed every one of your technical movements and said your off-the-ball awareness is like a twenty-year-old Thomas Muller."
On the training ground, Nagelsmann seemed oblivious to the media clamor. He blew his whistle as usual, gathering the players together.
"Guys, yesterday's victory is over,"
His gaze swept over everyone, lingering on Oliver for less than half a second.
"I know everyone is very happy, but I still hope the rest of you can focus on the upcoming Champions League qualifiers. Baumann, you'll do extra saving practice today; Gnabry, your crosses still need adjustment…"
All the first-team teammates were mentioned by Nagelsmann, but Oliver was not mentioned. As expected, Oliver did not get a chance to play in the next Champions League qualifier, not even as a substitute. He stood silently at the edge of the team, listening to the coach assign training tasks. He noticed that Nagelsmann never mentioned his performance in the German Cup, nor did he mention the overwhelming media reports. This brought him relief, but also a sense of disappointment.
During the group scrimmage, Oliver was assigned to the substitute lineup. He ran and competed diligently as usual, but after a few beautiful passes, the reporters on the sidelines started frantically pressing their camera shutters again. At lunchtime, the cafeteria TV was broadcasting sports news.
Behind the anchor, a highlight reel of Hoffenheim's 6-0 victory was playing, with Oliver's last-second world-class goal being repeatedly replayed.
"Hoffenheim became the most dazzling team in the first round of the German Cup…" the Commentator's voice came from the loudspeaker,
"Nagelsmann's strategy of rotating to preserve strength was a great success, with a big win in the first round of the German Cup, and the performance of 17-year-old youngster Oliver was even more…"
Hearing the media mention his name, Oliver lowered his head and furiously shoveled salad, pretending not to hear. In the afternoon tactical class, the analyst focused on explaining the defensive weaknesses of their Champions League opponent. Oliver diligently took notes, but noticed that in the new offensive routines demonstrated by the coach, the starting position on the right wing was still marked with other players' names, and his name was not on the substitute bench either.
After the meeting, he hesitated, but still stayed behind. He wanted to confirm whether he would have a chance to play; he still harbored fantasies and decided to talk to the coach.
"Coach," Oliver stood in front of the tactics board, his voice deeper than usual, "Regarding the Champions League qualifiers…"
Nagelsmann, without looking up, continued to organize his material, still very patient:
"Oliver, I know you played very well. Your performance in the German Cup match was excellent, but your current task is to recover and maintain your form."
He closed the folder and finally looked at Oliver, speaking earnestly.
"Although your debut was perfect, the opponent was after all a German 3rd League team. The Champions League is a different level of competition. Liverpool is not comparable to Rot-Weiss Erfurt. So… I hope you can settle down and continue to hone yourself. I know you are not an overambitious child, and I hope you can give yourself some time to continue improving."
"I understand, Coach…" Oliver nodded, then unconsciously lowered his head again.
Nagelsmann knew Oliver was a good child who listened to advice. When he saw Oliver feeling a bit down, he suddenly changed the subject.
"However, I still want to say, you are the best young man I have seen in all my years of coaching. I believe you will make a name for yourself this season, and I mean in the German Bundesliga. You will definitely become a key player for the team, but not now."
As he walked out of the meeting room, Oliver found that his phone had dozens more unread messages. He quickly scanned them; most were media reports forwarded by friends, and a few were congratulatory messages from teammates. He replied with a unified "Thanks, keep working hard," and then turned off notifications for social media apps.
After the evening's extra training, Oliver was again the last one to leave the training ground. Today was supposed to be mainly restorative training, but he couldn't resist adding a passing training session for himself. Oliver was somewhat unhappy. He thought about how well he had performed, yet he still couldn't get a chance to play in the Champions League qualifiers. This was mainly due to Nagelsmann's cautious consideration.
Indeed, just as he said, Liverpool was a team of a different caliber. Nagelsmann needed to play it safe by using the regular first-team starting lineup to contend, rather than taking a risk with a new player. Evidently, Oliver was not yet in Hoffenheim's first-team starting lineup.
On the way back to the dormitory, Oliver passed the club's wall of honor. The glass display case showcased photos and jerseys of past star players, the most recent being a full team photo from the end of last season. He paused for a moment, then gently touched his empty locker.
"One day, they'll hang my jersey here." he told himself.