After recovering, it was already lunchtime. Oliver carried his tray and found a window seat in the club cafeteria. His plate contained chicken breast, quinoa salad, and a small bowl of vegetable soup, all prepared by the club's nutritionist. Though bland, it was healthy. He had just forked a piece of chicken when his phone buzzed. It was a video call from Oliver's Father. He wiped his hands and pressed the answer button. A familiar face, smiling, immediately appeared on the screen. Oliver's Father was wearing a dark blue shirt, with his office in the background, where several documents were still piled on his desk.
"Oh, big star, eating, are you?"
Oliver's Father's first words were teasing, typical of his lively businessman demeanor.
"The food here is pretty good, but is it as delicious as your mother's oil-splashed noodles?"
After swallowing a piece of chicken breast, Oliver said, "How could it compare to my mother's cooking? Nutritional meals only have nutrition; they lack color, aroma, and taste."
"Alright, well said, your mother will definitely love to hear that," Olivers Father continued.
"Oh, right, I watched your game live yesterday. That cross in the second half was beautiful! If your teammate hadn't scored, I would have wanted to scold him."
"You watched? Didn't you say you were busy with meetings recently? How did you have time to watch my game?" Oliver asked, raising an eyebrow.
Oliver's Father waved his hand.
"How could a meeting be more important than my son's Bundesliga debut? Yesterday, I told those old guys that no one should stop me from watching the game. The contract could be signed later; a son's debut only happens once."
Oliver couldn't help but laugh aloud: "Didn't the client scold you for being unprofessional?"
"Scold what? I even showed them a recording of your game, and they all praised you." Olivers Father proudly lifted his chin,
"But speaking of which, wasn't your little leg flick over a bit too flashy? You almost messed it up, didn't you?"
Oliver scratched his head, "It was a bit risky, I'll have to be more restrained next time."
"Restrained what? Young people should have some edge!" Oliver's Father suddenly slapped the table, startling Oliver, "But if you mess up next time, remember to immediately track back. Don't be like some big-name stars who just shrug and pretend to be innocent when they make a mistake."
Oliver pouted: "You're a really strict agent. Are you already giving tactical instructions after one game?"
"Nonsense, even though your father hasn't played football, he's watched it for decades!" His Father proudly stroked his non-existent beard, "Oh, right, your mother was too busy to watch the live broadcast today. Remember to send her a highlight reel tonight; she's been talking about it all day."
"Okay, I'll edit a video and send it to our family group later." Oliver nodded, then scooped another spoonful of soup, "Are you this free today? Not doing foreign trade business anymore?"
"Doing it, why wouldn't I?" Oliver's Father pointed to the pile of documents behind him, "I'm just calling you during my lunch break. Oh, your mother asked me to ask you, if there's no game next week, do you want to come home for dinner? She said she'd stew some nourishing soup for you; the club's food looks bland."
Oliver smiled and shook his head: "I have training next week, so I can't go back. Tell Mom that when I come back for the winter break, I'll definitely eat all the signature dishes at her restaurant."
"Alright, I'll relay that exactly as you said." Oliver's Father glanced at his watch, "Okay, I won't delay your meal. Remember not to train too hard; your mother said you looked thinner in the last video call."
"Got it. You should also get more sleep. Say hello to Mom for me and tell her not to work too hard." Oliver waved at the screen.
After the call ended, Oliver put his phone back in his pocket and looked down to continue eating the food on his plate. It was a rest day, so there weren't many people in the cafeteria. Most players took advantage of the rest day to relax outside, with only a few staff members and substitute players scattered in the corners. He was chewing his last bite of salad when he suddenly felt someone sit down opposite him. He looked up and saw it was the head coach, Nagelsmann, holding a cup of black coffee and a simple meal.
"Oliver, do you mind if I sit here?" Nagelsmann smiled, a few fine lines appearing at the corners of his eyes. He was wearing the club's training jacket, his hair slightly messy, clearly having just come from the tactical analysis room.
"Of course not, Coach." Oliver quickly put down his fork and subconsciously sat up straight. Although Nagelsmann was usually easygoing with the players, as the youngest player on the team, Oliver always felt unconsciously tense in front of him. Nagelsmann seemed to notice his apprehension and waved his hand: "Alright, relax, today is a rest day."
He took a sip of coffee, his gaze sweeping over Oliver's plate,
"Are you used to the club's nutritional meals?"
"It's delicious, much better than the youth academy food I ate in England." Oliver smiled, trying to appear more natural.
Nagelsmann raised an eyebrow, "England... Oh, I remember now, you were at Birmingham's youth academy before, right?"
During the trial, Nagelsmann had looked at Oliver's resume and suddenly remembered that the resume mentioned Oliver came from Birmingham's youth academy before Paris Saint-Germain.
"Yes, Coach, from 12 to 15, I was at Birmingham."
"No wonder." Nagelsmann nodded, thoughtfully, "I was wondering why your game reading ability was so much stronger than your peers. It seems the tactical foundation of English youth training is indeed solid."
Oliver hadn't expected the coach to suddenly bring this up and didn't know how to respond, so he just lowered his head and took a sip of water. Nagelsmann didn't continue the topic either, and the two ate in silence for a while. The cafeteria TV was showing a replay of Liverpool's last Premier League match, with a glimpse of Mohamed Salah's goal.
"Have you watched other Liverpool games?" Nagelsmann suddenly asked.
"Many of them. Liverpool's high press is very aggressive." Oliver nodded.
"Yes, especially their young full-back star, the player named Arnold." At this point, Nagelsmann put down his knife and fork, his gaze sharpening,
"Oliver, since I've run into you here, I'll tell you now: I plan to start you in the second leg of the Champions League qualifier."
Oliver's fork clattered onto the plate. He suddenly looked up, unable to believe his ears:
"Me? I'm starting?"
"Yes, the next Champions League qualifier, at Anfield, you'll start on the right wing." Nagelsmann's tone was as calm as if he were discussing tomorrow's training schedule,
"This isn't a last-minute decision. I've been watching your performance in training and matches over the past few weeks. Your range of movement, passing vision, and defensive tracking back all meet my tactical requirements."
Oliver felt his heart pounding in his chest, his fingers unconsciously clutching the napkin. Starting in a Champions League qualifier? And at Anfield? That was Liverpool's home ground, one of the most terrifying 'devil's homes' in European football! He opened his mouth but no sound came out.
Nagelsmann seemed pleased with his reaction, the corners of his mouth curving slightly upward: "If Klopp dares to start 19-year-old Arnold at our home ground, why can't I start 17-year-old you at Anfield? Age is never the issue, ability is. Don't tell me you're scared."
Oliver took a deep breath, trying to make his voice sound steady: "No, not scared! I'm just too excited. Thank you for your trust, Coach. I definitely won't let you down."
"Don't thank me so quickly." Nagelsmann's expression became serious.
"Anfield is not an ordinary stadium, and the fans there are not ordinary fans. From the first second you step on the field, they will put pressure on you. Although I'm starting you, I still want to give you a heads-up: if your performance at Anfield is not good, I might substitute you at halftime. Is that understood?"
"No problem, Coach." Oliver nodded heavily.
He knew the coach was preparing him; opportunity and risk coexisted, glory and pressure went hand in hand. Whether he could play the full match at Anfield depended on his performance. After both had finished eating, Nagelsmann stood up and said, "Let's go, walk with me."
They walked out of the cafeteria and slowly strolled along the tree-lined path of the training base, walking side by side, their pace unhurried.
"Oliver, what are your thoughts on Liverpool's tactics?" he suddenly asked.
Oliver thought for a moment and carefully replied: "Their full-backs have a very wide attacking range, but they also leave large spaces behind them. If our wingers can track back in time to support, perhaps we can hit them on the counter-attack."
Nagelsmann looked at him approvingly: "Good, similar to my thoughts. However, Robertson and Arnold's stamina are both incredible; they can sprint up and down many times within 90 minutes. You need to be mentally prepared for this; this match will be very tiring."
"Coach, I'm not afraid of being tired." Oliver blurted out.
Nagelsmann smiled and said, "Youth is good, isn't it?"
He stopped and turned to face Oliver,
"The next three days are a critical training period. I will focus on practicing tactics specifically for Liverpool. If you don't understand anything, feel free to ask me at any time. Show me your usual eagerness to learn."
"Okay, Coach." Oliver nodded solemnly.
Nagelsmann patted Oliver's chest, "Alright, don't always be so tense. Relax, kid. Go back and continue resting. It won't be this easy starting tomorrow."
Watching the coach's receding back, Oliver stood rooted to the spot for a long time. He was completely stunned.
"Anfield... Champions League... starting..."
These words echoed in his mind, both exhilarating and making him feel as if he were treading on thin ice. He was a professional player, he was only 17 years old, and he naturally understood the preciousness of these words. For anyone who loved football, this was almost a dream come true.
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