The stadium erupted like a tidal wave.
Levante's players looked at Su Hang with undisguised envy.
This was the Crown Prince of Real Madrid!
This was the power of playing on the world's biggest stage.
With only three games last season and less than ten this season, Su Hang had already risen to fame in Spain, carrying the aura of a future superstar. Even across Europe, his name was starting to spread.
Eighty thousand people celebrating with him?
Not even Zidane or Ronaldo had managed that.
Su Hang's connection and pull with the fans went beyond what most people could imagine.
The atmosphere was electric.
Yet, after the celebration, Su Hang still felt strangely empty.
It was like… he'd forgotten something.
Beep!
The whistle blew. The match resumed with Levante's kickoff.
Suddenly, Su Hang smacked his forehead.
Mbappé!
Damn it!
He'd completely forgotten the Ninja Turtle!
Forgot about their special turtle celebration!
...
France, inside a classroom.
Mbappé was on the verge of tears, eyes glistening.
The kids around him mocked:
"So what if he scored? Told you you were lying! Su Hang doesn't even know you! Did you even go to Spain?"
Mbappé clenched his fists. "Shut up! I went! I spoke with Su! He just… he just got too busy and forgot!"
"It has to be that! Next time, I'll remind him!"
The kids burst out laughing.
"Next time? Still gonna keep lying? You think we'll believe you? Even if you met Su, he's already forgotten you!"
"You think you're some football genius?"
"You think you'll play for Real Madrid one day?"
"You think you'll be the next Su?"
The string of taunts left young Mbappé rattled.
But underneath, the jealousy was obvious.
In his school—and even the whole region—Mbappé was the best in his age group.
He'd started playing at four, his father was a football coach, and his talent had been clear from the start.
Some even said if he kept going like this, he'd make it into the Clairefontaine training camp one day—the sacred ground of French youth football.
In 1998, under Zidane's lead, France had set off from Clairefontaine and brought home the World Cup.
It had produced legends like Thierry Henry, David Trezeguet, and Nicolas Anelka.
All of France was asking: Who will be next?
Beep, beep, beep!
The TV sound snapped Mbappé out of his thoughts.
On screen, shortly after the restart, Real Madrid attacked again.
Figo crossed from outside the box, then raised his hand to signal a handball.
The referee blew his whistle, pointed straight to the spot, and awarded a penalty without hesitation.
In their panic, a Levante player had made a motion closer to a volleyball pass than a clearance—conceding a penalty and earning a yellow card in the process.
Ronaldo was the team's primary penalty taker, but he had already been subbed off.
That meant the penalty should now fall to Zidane.
Zidane picked up the ball and started toward the spot.
Then a voice came from behind.
"Uh… Zinedine!"
Su Hang.
Zidane stopped, frowning slightly.
Those who didn't know him well called him Zidane.
Close friends called him "Zizou."
But using his first name so formally? Rare.
It was familiarity laced with a hint of formality.
Zidane could already guess what was coming.
"Can I take this one?" Su Hang asked. "I know it's not right, but I—"
A brief silence fell.
Gasps rippled through the stands.
"Oh no! Su Hang's asking Zidane for the penalty?"
"I get it—he's already scored twice, one more and it's a hat trick!"
"But a penalty is a symbol of hierarchy. You can't just ask for one!"
"This could spark tension in the locker room!"
"Su Hang's being reckless!"
"Wasn't he the one who'd even sit out for team harmony? Why's he fighting for a penalty now?"
"Guess the media exaggerated his character. He's just a nineteen-year-old kid after all!"
"Sure, his performance today deserves the penalty… but not the privilege that comes with being fourth captain!"
Thud!
Zidane tossed the ball to him.
He understood.
At Su Hang's age, given the same chance, Zidane would have asked for it too.
In fact, Zidane had just been thinking of handing it to Su Hang—only Su spoke up too soon.
That impatience chipped a little at the image Zidane had of him.
A shame.
It could have been perfect if he'd waited.
"Zizou! Thank you! I'll give you tons of assists, score loads from your passes, I'm really grateful!" Su Hang pulled him into a hug. "I promised a French kid named Mbappé."
"That I'd score in this game and do the celebration we agreed on."
"He's a die-hard Real Madrid fan, watching me on TV right now."
"I got too excited earlier and forgot… but I can't break my promise. I can't let my fans down. So…"
"Thank you, Zizou!"
Zidane's expression shifted in surprise. "Mbappé? Kylian Mbappé?"
Su Hang blinked. "Yeah… you know him?"
Zidane chuckled. "Both his parents were athletes. I've heard he's got real talent. This past summer he was named Best Player at the U7 Ball Boy Cup in Saint-Denis."
"If it weren't for the Euro preparations, I would have handed him the trophy myself."
Zidane was deeply supportive of French football, rarely turning down official invitations without good reason.
Sharp-minded and ambitious—if he ever ran for President of France, few would be surprised.
"Phew!" Su Hang let out a sigh of relief. "Then you can't be mad at me. I didn't mean any disrespect. From now on, if I win a penalty, it's yours."
Zidane ruffled his hair. "No need, kid. This one's for the future superstar of France. You'd better score it."
"Because I'm not giving you another one if you miss."
The tension on the pitch dissolved instantly.
The clash everyone expected never came.
Zidane didn't seem upset—he even gave Su Hang a smile and shoved him toward the box.
Reporters were stunned.
How could this be?
How could Zidane just give it away?
---
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