(A/n: A 100 chapters. Lets gooo! No bonus this week as I didn't get time. Soo sorry. You are entitled to two bonus chaps due to p@treon memberships and 0 due to powerstones. Will do the bonus chaps this upcoming week. So expect 5 chaps next week plus whatever bonus you make out of the conditions.
I have edited till chapter 50. You all can check it out. All the inconsistencies have been removed and the chinese things have been edited out. Will complete the rest chapter till next Sunday or less than that. So @JohnnyReever and @Shinkaio, be ready to change your reviews~ 😤😤
Also, please review the book and leave comments as it will expand the books reach.
Untill then, Ciao~)
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The moment Oliver fell, the entire Bernabéu fell silent.
"Oliver!!!" Heart-wrenching shouts almost simultaneously exploded from all over the pitch. Captain Vogt, who was closest, practically scrambled to Oliver's side. Maguire's massive frame rushed over with a gust of wind, clumsily yet urgently kneeling on Oliver's other side, his huge hands trembling as he tried to touch him, yet feared hurting him. Gnabry followed closely, his young face drained of color, leaving only panic.
After De Jong saw the situation clearly, he immediately stopped grieving over the loss. He rushed over like an arrow released from a bow. Amiri, Nordtveit, Uth… everyone from Hoffenheim gathered around. On the sidelines, Coach Nagelsmann almost used his hands and feet, disregarding the assistant referee's obstruction, stumbling onto the field. His face was expressionless, only a solidified panic. Players and coaching staff from the substitutes' bench also poured onto the field.
In the first row of the stands, Jules and Shuwen stood up almost the instant Oliver fell.
Shuwen let out a heart-wrenching scream: "Ollie!"
She instinctively tried to flip over the railing and jump down, but Jules, who was beside her, held her back tightly. However, his own hands were trembling violently, and his face was pale. Jules led his wife to the nearby aisle. After identifying themselves, with the assistance of Bernabéu security personnel, they rushed down the stands at the fastest speed and ran towards the small, encircled focus in the center of the field.
In the VIP box, Professor Arsène Wenger, who had been closely monitoring the situation on the field, suddenly stood up, unable to steady his cane, and his assistant quickly supported him.
"Quick! Come with me now!"
His brows were tightly furrowed, and his sharp gaze was fixed on the chaotic center of the field below. Without hesitation, he immediately signaled his assistant to follow him down. On the other side, Real Madrid Coach Zidane was discussing with his assistant when he suddenly noticed the abnormal reactions of the Hoffenheim players and the commotion on the field.
Zidane's expression changed, and he immediately shouted to his players who were about to celebrate: "Stop! Everyone stop!"
He quickly ordered in Spanish: "Cristiano, Kroos, you come with me! Serge, Casemiro, you take the others back to the locker room first!"
His tone was stern and brooked no argument. Zidane's order made perfect sense. Ramos and Casemiro were directly responsible for Oliver's injury, and he would not let them appear near Hoffenheim. Ramos and Casemiro exchanged glances, seemingly wanting to say something, but seeing Zidane's unquestionable gaze and Cristiano Ronaldo's slight head shake, they finally nodded silently and turned to leave.
Cristiano Ronaldo and Kroos followed closely behind Zidane, walking quickly towards the scene of the incident with grave expressions. The stretcher quickly arrived under the direction of the team doctor.
Hoffenheim's chief team doctor, Marcus, and his assistant quickly knelt on Oliver's left side, their movements professional and urgent. Real Madrid team doctor Sanchez and his assistant arrived almost simultaneously, squeezing to the right side. The two groups did not communicate, but tacitly began to divide the work and examine him.
Marcus skillfully opened Oliver's eyelids, quickly shining a flashlight on his pupils, while growling: "Pupil response is normal, ruling out concussion."
He quickly stabilized Oliver's neck. Sanchez quickly examined the bruise on Oliver's right leg, pressing firmly on several key areas, and then carefully probed the wound on his temple, speaking rapidly:
"Contusion of the quadriceps femoris on the right thigh, with subcutaneous bleeding. Laceration on the forehead, about two centimeters, the wound surface has been cleaned, and bleeding has stopped. Preliminary judgment indicates no structural damage, no signs of open fracture!"
He quickly covered the wound with new sterile gauze.
"How are the vital signs?" Marcus asked his assistant.
The assistant had already clipped the pulse oximeter to Oliver's finger, looking at the readings: "Heart rate 130, blood oxygen 97%, blood pressure elevated, 150/110, and severe dehydration, body temperature 37.1!"
"Saline, intravenous access! Quick!" Marcus ordered.
The stretcher was already in place, and the medical staff from both teams carefully moved Oliver's body onto it. The moment he was secured, Jules and Shuwen finally broke through the crowd and rushed to the stretcher. Shuwen collapsed on the left side of the stretcher, her trembling hand tightly grasping her son's hand that had no needle. Seeing her son unconscious, her heart was twisted with pain, and tears streamed down, but she bit her lip tightly to prevent herself from crying out, her shoulders shaking violently.
Jules stood behind his wife, one hand pressing firmly on her shoulder, seemingly to transmit support, while the other hand tightly gripped Oliver's wrist on the other side, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. His gaze was fixed on his son's pale, closed eyes and the dazzling gauze on his forehead, his lips pressed into a tight line, and the muscles in his jaw bulged slightly from the effort.
On the right side of the stretcher, Nagelsmann knelt on the grass without hesitation, his hands tightly gripping the turf. Tears unexpectedly streamed from Nagelsmann's eyes, rolling down his young but already weary-lined cheeks, dripping onto Oliver's hand.
"I'm sorry… Oliver… I'm sorry…" His voice was broken and choked, filled with unspeakable pain,
"I should have insisted… I should have substituted you directly… even if you hated me… I should have substituted you… It's all my fault… I'm not a competent Coach, I don't deserve to be your Coach… I'm sorry… child… I'm sorry…" He repeated incoherently, his forehead resting on Oliver's arm, his shoulders uncontrollably trembling.
Zidane and Wenger also approached the stretcher with the assistance of security personnel. Wenger, close to Jules, had moist eyes behind his glasses. He leaned slightly, took off his glasses, wiped away tears, and looked at Oliver on the stretcher with concern and worry.
"Oliver… Oliver…" Nagelsmann called out to his disciple, his voice still choked beyond recognition.
Nagelsmann raised his head, tears and sweat mixed together, flowing down his young but now exceptionally haggard face. He looked at Jules and Shuwen behind him, his eyes filled with desperate self-reproach.
"I'm sorry… Mr. Thorne, Mrs. Shuwen… I… I'm sorry to you… I'm sorry, Oliver…" Nagelsmann's tears streamed out, almost sobbing uncontrollably,
"It's my fault… it's all my fault, I am the Coach… I should have… I should have been more decisive, I should have forced him off! He refused twice… but I… I shouldn't have been soft-hearted! I shouldn't have listened to him! I… I didn't do what a Coach should do… I'm incompetent…" He regretfully slammed his free left hand hard on the ground, his shoulders shaking violently.
Nagelsmann couldn't forgive himself. When Oliver twice indicated he could continue, he chose to trust his disciple's will, but ignored the physical limits and potential dangers behind that will. He felt as if he had personally pushed his most cherished disciple into the abyss.
Jules looked at the Coach, much younger than himself, yet burdened with immense pressure and responsibility, weeping profusely, listening to his heartfelt repentance. As a father, his heart was naturally twisted with pain, but as a man, as someone who had also experienced career ups and downs. He understood the rapidly changing decisions on the field and the respect for a player's will.
During the match, Jules saw with his own eyes that when Nagelsmann signaled for a substitution. It was his son's almost stubborn insistence in his eyes, twice refusing the coaching staff in an almost disrespectful manner. His son's stubbornness resembled him.
On Oliver, there was the shadow of his younger self. Jules was also incredibly stubborn when he was young. Just like Oliver on the field today, even if injured, as long as he hadn't lost, as long as he could still run, he would insist on not leaving the field. His son was too much like him, too much… The personalities of this father and son were almost carved from the same mold. This was inherited stubbornness and competitiveness. Everything now was not entirely Nagelsmann's responsibility.
Jules took a deep breath, suppressing his churning emotions. He walked around the stretcher and stood in front of Nagelsmann, who was still kneeling and weeping. To everyone's surprise, Jules bent down and extended his arms. It was not a rebuke, but a firm embrace of the young Coach.
He patted Nagelsmann's back forcefully, his voice low and hoarse, his words full of understanding: "It's alright… Coach Julian… You've done well enough… I saw it all from the sidelines, it was my son… he refused you twice… I understand my son, I understand him too well… He has been… this stubborn since he was a child, his competitiveness is inherently very strong… He told me before the match that he wanted to win Hoffenheim's first Champions League and make you the youngest Champions League Coach. I am his father, you are his Coach, I think… we can both understand this competitiveness."
Jules's embrace conveyed his understanding and also the unspoken, profound bond between adult men. As Jules spoke, Nagelsmann felt even more heartbroken, sobbing on Jules's shoulder. Zidane watched this scene, took a step forward, and firmly placed a hand on Nagelsmann's shoulder, which was shaking from his crying, his palm warm and steady.
"Julian," Zidane's voice was deep and magnetic, carrying a calmness that had experienced countless storms, "Calm down first, the most important thing now is this child."
Zidane turned to Jules and Shuwen, bowing slightly with sincere attitude: "Mr. Thorne, Mrs. Oliver, please allow me, on behalf of Real Madrid Club, to extend our deepest apologies to you. My players and I bear an undeniable responsibility for what happened on the field today. I am very sorry for the harm my players caused to Oliver."
Wenger also leaned forward at the opportune moment and said to Shuwen: "Madam, please be strong. Your son… he is one of the most resilient and talented young men I have seen in decades, if not the most. His willpower is extraordinary; he will surely overcome such challenges. The most important thing now is for him to receive the best medical care. He will definitely get better."
Wenger's gaze then turned to Nagelsmann, who was still leaning on Jules's shoulder, his tone carrying a hint of imperceptible sternness. This was Wenger, as an elder, offering guidance to his junior, Nagelsmann: "Julian, protecting players is always a Coach's primary responsibility. Sometimes, as Coaches, we need to be clearer-headed and more decisive than the players themselves, even when faced with their stubbornness, we must make a decision when it is needed. Alright, Julian, Oliver will be fine, trust me, he will."
Nagelsmann turned around, his eyes already red, and said shamefully.
"Yes… Mr. Wenger… You are right to criticize."
Zidane did not pause, clearly stating the arrangements: "I have just contacted Madrid's best sports medicine center, the Olympia Clinic. They have top-notch sports injury treatment equipment and a team of experts, and are Real Madrid's primary cooperating hospital. The ambulance is ready, waiting at the aisle entrance."
His gaze swept over Oliver, who was still unconscious on the stretcher, and his tone was decisive: "Later, I will personally escort Oliver to the hospital to ensure he receives the most timely and top-notch treatment. I will not leave the hospital until he is confirmed out of danger and fully conscious."
This decisive promise, like a stone thrown into still water, instantly broke the solemnity and grief of the scene. Jules looked at Zidane, not knowing what to say. After all, it was this bald man who had his players tackle his son. He said a faint "Thank you," then continued to comfort his wife. Shuwen raised her tearful eyes, looked at Zidane, her lips moving, but ultimately only a silent nod emerged.
Nagelsmann hastily wiped away the tears on his face, his eyes regaining their determination: "I'm going too. I'm his Coach. I won't leave Oliver when he needs me most."
"Zidane, take me too." Professor Wenger also wanted to go.
"Of course," Zidane replied succinctly, then decisively waved his hand, signaling the stretcher to move.
Medical personnel from both teams immediately acted in coordination, carefully lifting the stretcher. Nagelsmann, Vogt, Maguire, De Jong, Gnabry, and others automatically gathered, forming a protective human wall, escorting the stretcher towards the players'aisle entrance. Jules supported his almost exhausted wife, following closely behind. Zidane, Wenger, Cristiano Ronaldo, and Kroos also followed along.
Outside the aisle, an ambulance with Real Madrid's emblem was already waiting, its blue top lights flashing. The door opened, and professional paramedics quickly stepped forward to assist, smoothly pushing the stretcher into the vehicle. Hoffenheim team doctor Marcus and Real Madrid team doctor Sanchez also squeezed in, ready to monitor him during the journey. Jules helped his wife into the car, sitting beside Oliver's head, Shuwen's hand once again tightly grasping her son's hand, not letting go for a moment.
Zidane nodded to Wenger, Cristiano Ronaldo, and Kroos: "Cristiano, Kroos, you go back first and contact me immediately if anything happens."
He looked at Nagelsmann and Wenger, "Julian, Mr. Wenger, you two ride in the same car as me."
Nagelsmann and Wenger both got into the car. Zidane then solemnly said to Jules and Shuwen: "Please rest assured, sir, madam, we will follow the ambulance and escort Oliver all the way."
The ambulance siren blared, piercing the quiet of the Madrid night. The ambulance and the Real Madrid business car that followed closely behind, escorted by police motorcycles, drove away from the Bernabéu Stadium, merged into the city's traffic, and sped towards the Olympia Clinic.
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