7: Chapter 7 Memory Bread

Shayon Harrison deceived the goalkeeper with his penalty and slotted it home easily, making the score 2-0.

The rest of the match became Yu Bai's personal playground.

When he collected the ball deep in his own half and the Brighton striker lazily pressed him, he would first flick it with the outside of his boot, feinting towards the flank. The moment the opponent shifted his weight, he would drag the ball back with the inside of his boot and slip past in the opposite direction.

Sometimes he couldn't even be bothered to feint, relying instead on a few quick, short-range touches. A split second before the opponent stretched out a leg to intercept, he would poke the ball through a narrow gap and nimbly dance around them. He would beat one defender, and if there was another covering, he would beat him too. The ball seemed glued to his feet, weaving in and out of the crowd, dazzling everyone watching.

Once he carried the ball across the halfway line into the final third, the tempo changed. His Dribbling became more restrained, replaced by concise, one-touch passes. He would curl the ball into the open spaces on the flanks or suddenly thread a through-ball that pierced the defense. He switched between the "Lone Wolf" and "Commander" modes with fluid ease, as if his brain held two completely different programs that he could call upon at any moment.

What made Coach McKenna hold his breath on the sidelines was the subtle balance Yu Bai struck between the "irrational" and the "rational" in his play.

There were times when others would think he should pass, yet he would take one extra touch to draw the covering defender in before releasing the ball. Other times, when it looked like he should shoot himself, he would lightly tap it to a teammate left unmarked. It wasn't rigid tactical execution, but an instinctive reading and manipulation of space and defensive focus.

By halftime, the score was a glaring 5-0. Shayon Harrison had scored a Hat-trick, while Dylan Duncan and Kazaiah Sterling had each added one. On Yu Bai's stat sheet, there were zero goals, but three assists, one penalty won, and an indirect assist from a corner kick that opened the scoring. Every one of those five goals bore his fingerprints.

The dressing room was a mix of sweat, grass clippings, and excited clamor. Yu Bai wiped his damp hair with a towel, the ice-cold water dripping down onto his collarbone, feeling chilly. Coach McKenna cut through the celebrating crowd, walked up to him, and placed a hand on his still-heaving shoulder.

"Yu, I saw those moves of yours in attack."

Coach McKenna's voice cut through the noise of the dressing room, his eyes locked on him. "You'll probably have about twenty minutes in the second half. Let me see your defense."

Yu Bai looked up, meeting his coach's gaze.

"There's no such thing as a player born without defensive ability."

Coach McKenna applied a bit of pressure, squeezing his shoulder. "If you really want to play in the Premier League, you need to start building defensive habits now. It will bring you much closer to where you want to be."

After saying this, he turned to the whole team and clapped his hands. "Alright, boys! Listen up, Dylan, you're coming off to rest. Ryotaro Araki, you're on, playing the number ten role. Yu," he looked back at Yu Bai, "you're the sole defensive midfielder."

As the second-half whistle blew, Yu Bai licked his slightly chapped lips. He had been fouled several times in the first half, and there were still stinging scratches from the opponent's studs on his calves. Now, it was his turn.

The opportunity came quickly. The Brighton striker who had taken several cheap shots at him in the first half was receiving the ball with his back to goal at the edge of the center circle. Yu Bai didn't hesitate. Seeing the moment he turned to adjust, he lunged into a decisive sliding tackle!

His foot touched the ball first—a clean tackle. But the momentum carried him through, solidly taking the opponent down. The striker rolled on the ground twice, clutching his leg and screaming.

"Beep—!"

The referee blew the whistle, jogged over, and pulled out a yellow card for Yu Bai.

Yu Bai immediately scrambled up from the ground, his face a picture of "innocence" and "disbelief," throwing his hands up as if to say, 'What did I do?'

The Brighton striker, who had been moaning in pain on the ground, glimpsed Yu Bai's "I'm more wronged than Dou E" expression through his fingers. Suddenly, his calf didn't hurt anymore; rage surged to his head.

He sat up with a start, ignoring the team doctor, and pointed at Yu Bai, roaring in heavily accented English: "You son of a bitch! You skinny monkey! You did that on purpose! You're getting revenge for that kick in the first half!"

Yu Bai ignored him and turned to Ryotaro Araki, who had run over to see what was happening. "Ryotaro, he's insulting you."

Ryotaro Araki: "???"

He looked at Yu Bai blankly, then at the furious Brighton striker, having no idea how this fire had ended up burning him.

On the sidelines, Coach McKenna suddenly covered his face with his hands, muttering something through his fingers that made no sound, but the shape of his mouth clearly said, "Fucking hell!"

I told you to practice defense, not to become a butcher!

But everyone understood that Yu Bai had done it on purpose. On that play in the first half, he had clearly already passed the ball, yet the opponent had still kicked his calf hard. The referee hadn't reacted. He hadn't forgotten.

The second-half Brighton comeback that Coach McKenna had expected, which would have put defensive pressure on Yu Bai, never materialized. With a five-goal lead and the team collapsing, the visitors had long since lost heart, attacking half-heartedly. Yu Bai was bored to the point of distraction in the backfield.

In the sixtieth minute, Coach McKenna used his final two substitutions. He called Yu Bai to the sideline and patted his back. "That's enough, come on off. You played well." Harrison, who had scored the Hat-trick, was also subbed off.

Yu Bai walked toward the bench, his mind on something else: the Best Player award. The three attribute points and that "Memory Bread" rewarded by the system were still pending.

...

Huanledou Live Stream.

The screen was flooded with [???] and [Hahaha] in the live chat. The glaring 5-0 on the scoreboard was like a resounding slap to Streamer's face.

"I..."

Streamer stared at the screen, mouth agape, a wheezing sound similar to oxygen deprivation emitting from his throat.

The bets he had placed earlier on "Brighton +1.5" and "Half-time Under 1.25" were already dead and buried. The chat was still spamming wildly: [Are you going to do that handstand hair wash, bro?], [Soft-legged crab?], [Money power?], [Streamer, say something!].

He violently tugged at his greasy hair, his face turning bright red, and roared into the microphone: "Look, look, look! Look at what? Yu Bai is off! I'm not streaming anymore! Stream ended!"

As soon as he finished speaking, the stream instantly went black, leaving only a small line of text: [The streamer is on his way...], along with an explosion of comments calling him a sore loser.

...

Beijing, early morning. Shen Muwan's apartment.

The light from her tablet reflected on her face; the screen showed highlights of the match. She watched that familiar yet slightly strange figure weaving through the crowd, beating one player, then another, and then delivering a pass that even a layperson like her thought, "How is that possible?"

She had always known her son was good at soccer, that he had the talent. But in her imagination, that "good" meant being top-tier among his peers in the country, the hope that he might one day join the national team. But the Yu Bai on the screen displayed something entirely different—a kind of arrogant composure, a control that turned the match into a personal show. This didn't look like "domestic excellence," it looked more like... She couldn't find the right word, just feeling that her son had suddenly burst into a wider, more astonishing world that she knew nothing about.

She turned off the video and sat in the darkness for a long time until the phone screen locked automatically.

...

The final whistle and a "ding" notification in his mind sounded almost simultaneously.

[Received 3 attribute points, 1 Memory Bread.]

The dressing room was still noisy. Yu Bai leaned against his locker and closed his eyes. In his consciousness, three points of light appeared. Without hesitation, he guided them to [Strength] again.

A familiar, subtle aching sensation swept through his limbs, more noticeable than last time. On the panel, the numbers jumped.

[Strength 35 → 38]

Three points. Still not much. But Yu Bai could feel the difference. At the U18 level, a Strength of 35 was probably below average; 38 might barely touch the edge of the average line. That small gap could be the difference between being knocked off the ball and being able to hold his ground in a high-speed challenge. He needed this. Once his body was no longer a clear disadvantage, his technique could be truly unleashed.

...

After showering, the atmosphere in the dressing room was heated. Teammates kept coming over, lightly punching his chest or draping an arm around his neck to talk about the match.

"Yu, that move when you beat the third guy, what were you thinking? He almost sat on the ground from your feint!"

"That outside-of-the-boot curl, what the hell, how did you see the space over there?"

"Pass to me like that in the next game, guaranteed goal!"

Yu Bai smiled, wiping his hair with a towel, responding to each one. He had become the temporary focus of the dressing room, enveloped in an atmosphere mixed with admiration, curiosity, and acceptance.

"Clap! Clap! Clap!"

Coach McKenna walked in clapping, and the dressing room quieted down a little.

"Listen, boys. Tonight, the first team is playing away against Manchester United, the new season opener. I want you all to watch! Watch closely! Think about how you would handle the ball if you were in those positions. I will be asking, so don't think just because you played a good game that you're off the hook!"

A chorus of groans and exaggerated sighs erupted, sounding exactly like students hearing about extra homework.

Coach McKenna waited for the complaints to die down, took a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and opened it.

"Those whose names are called, starting tomorrow, you will train with the U21s. Whether or not you make the match squad for the day after tomorrow is up to you."

He cleared his throat. "Shayon Harrison, Oliver Skipp, Japhet Tanganga, Alfie Whiteman, Dylan Duncan, Kazaiah Sterling."

After reading the names, Coach McKenna folded the list.

Yu Bai's heart sank. His name wasn't there. He lowered his head and tied his shoelaces, his movements slowing down. Forget it, it's only the first match, why rush? Getting into the U21s at 17 was never realistic anyway... He glanced at Oliver Skipp, who was excited nearby—that kid was only 15. Yu Bai silently finished tying his shoelaces. Forget it, comparing yourself to others only makes you angry.

The locker room was silent for a few seconds. Many of his teammates subconsciously glanced at Yu Bai, then quickly looked away, their expressions filled with confusion and bewilderment. Dylan Duncan frowned directly, opening his mouth as if to say something, but after looking at Coach McKenna, he swallowed his words, looking indignant.

Coach McKenna took in everyone's reactions, and finally, his gaze landed on Yu Bai. The corner of his mouth seemed to curl up, but he quickly flattened it.

"Oh, right."

He acted as if he had just remembered, tapping his palm casually with the paper. "Yu, you're coming along tomorrow too. You were the best player today. Go to the U21s, meet some people, and get familiar with the place."

He paused, watching Yu Bai lift his face, his tone returning to his usual indifference. "I believe it won't be long before you become a regular there."

Yu Bai looked at him, speechless for a moment, then finally just shook his head with a helpless smile. This old guy is definitely doing this on purpose.

...

On the way back to the Thompson residence, night had already shrouded Enfield. Yu Bai took out his phone, the screen's light illuminating his face. He opened the Dongqiudi app.

A push notification appeared immediately on the screen, the bolded headline almost hitting him in the face:

[A Debut That's a Total Bomb! Chinese Teenager Yu Bai Stages a Hat-trick of Assists in His Tottenham U18 Debut, Leading the Team to a 6-1 Thrashing of Brighton!]

He clicked on it. The article contained match highlights, and the GIFs played his Dribbling and assists over and over again. The comment section below had completely changed.

[Holy crap! Is this really Yu Bai? This Dribbling, this Passing, it's like he's a completely different person!]

[Tottenham has found a gem! The Arsenal youth director needs to come out and take a beating! How could they let him go?]

[Although, he's still physically thin; he definitely won't cut it in the Premier League.]

[Shut up, you hater upstairs! What does U18 need with physical Strength? His technical awareness is absolutely a dimension-reduction strike!]

[Yu Bai is awesome! (Voice crack)]

[Watched the highlights, his Dribbling is legit, his rhythm is so good, it's not just mindless speed.]

[Now the pressure is on Arsenal.]

[Asking, not knowing: can this level skip grades to join the U21s?]

[U21? Be bolder, I'm betting on the first team bench!]

Yu Bai scrolled down one by one, unable to suppress the curve of his lips. The night breeze blew against his face with a hint of chill, but the fire in his heart was burning brightly. He put away his phone and quickened his pace home.

...

London, Enfield. The backyard of the Thompson residence.

The charcoal in the grill was glowing red, with meat skewers and sausages neatly arranged on the side, sizzling and releasing an aroma that drifted along with the summer night breeze. Susan was at the prep table cutting tomatoes and lettuce, but her movements were distracted.

"David," she finally couldn't help it. She put down the knife and turned to her husband, who was fanning the grill, her voice suppressed with excitement. "Do you think... Yu Bai is the most special among all the kids who have stayed in our home over the years? I mean, the way he played on the pitch today... is it possible, really... that he could play for the first team?"

David Thompson stopped fanning and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm. He didn't answer immediately, instead pulling two bottles of beer from the small ice bucket nearby. With a "pop," he pried one open with an opener, handed it to Susan, opened another for himself, and took a large gulp. As the cold liquid slid down his throat, he let out a long "ah."

"It's hard to say, Susan. Really hard to say."

His voice was a bit deep, raspy from the beer. "The way he played today... it wasn't like the other kids before. Completely different."

He paused, seemingly searching for the right words in his mind. "It wasn't that... um, 'this kid has a future' feeling. It was something else. Scarier, even. Those dribbles, those passes—they looked flashy, but every choice was, damn it... so damn reasonable. It was like he already knew what the defenders were going to do next."

Grandma Margaret had been sitting quietly in the rattan chair in the backyard, a thin blanket covering her knees. She wasn't holding beer, just a cup of hot tea. Behind the curling steam, her gaze seemed to pass through the charcoal fire and food in front of her, landing on a more distant time and space.

"If Yu Bai can keep playing like this..."

She spoke slowly, her voice not loud, but it made the busy Susan and the contemplative David stop. "Then what we're discussing won't be whether he 'can' make the first team."

She turned her head to look at her son and daughter-in-law, the dim backyard light reflecting in her wrinkled but exceptionally bright eyes.

"What we should be discussing is," she said, enunciating every word slowly, each one carrying weight, "at what age—eighteen or nineteen—this genius who walked out of our home will first step onto the Premier League pitch."

She paused, as if reminiscing or confirming.

"I've been watching Tottenham for nearly sixty years."

Grandma Margaret let out a gentle breath, carrying the scent of tea and the length of years. "A kid like him today, who makes Dribbling and Passing as natural as eating and drinking, and who carries such... cleverness—the last time I had this feeling was a long, long time ago."

The beer bottle in Susan's hand hung in mid-air. She looked at her mother-in-law, then at her husband, and finally, her gaze couldn't help but drift toward the third floor, and she subconsciously covered her mouth.

David tightened his grip on the beer bottle and nodded slowly. His face no longer just held the satisfaction of the home team's big win, but a mixture of shock, expectation, and a certain gravity of witnessing history.

"Grandma! Dad! Mom!"

Michael Thompson's voice came with the sound of the front door opening, revealing a sense of exhaustion and casualness after getting off work. Immediately after came a crisp, pleasant female voice: "Good evening." That was Michael's girlfriend, Emily Clark, an investment banking analyst working in the City of London.

Susan hurriedly smiled and greeted them to sit down in the backyard, taking the bouquet of flowers Emily brought, but her gaze couldn't help but drift toward the quiet house, whispering a complaint: "Chloe is still nowhere to be seen... Yu Bai should be coming down soon, the protagonist of the victory celebration needs to be here..." These words made Michael, who already seemed a bit irritable, knit his brows tightly.

"Mom, seriously," he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, his tone full of lawyer-like, matter-of-fact confusion, and even a bit of anger. "Why on earth are we still doing this... homestay thing? This isn't making money; it's losing money. Have you calculated the food, utilities, and the time you spend? What is that little bit of money the club gives you enough for? I really don't see the point in this."

He picked up the beer his father hadn't finished and took a gulp, as if to suppress the irritation from his commute, his words becoming even more direct. "Besides, those young players—how many out of a hundred actually make it? Let alone this time..." He paused, gesturing casually toward the second floor with the hand holding the bottle, the implication self-evident. "And he's a Chinese kid. In this football business, Asians? Have you ever thought about the odds?"

He put down the beer bottle, the glass bottom hitting the wooden table with a crisp "clack," drawing a decisive period to his words: "It's meaningless. It's a pure waste."

The yard suddenly fell silent. On the grill, a drop of fat fell into the charcoal, sizzling as a short burst of flame and smoke erupted. The smile on Susan's face froze, her hands unconsciously wiping her apron. David's mouth was pressed into a thin line, staring at his son, his jawline tense. Grandma Margaret was still holding her teacup, but her cloudy eyes were cast down, looking at her own silent reflection in the cup. Emily clearly became awkward, reaching out to gently tug at Michael's sleeve.

This sudden, awkward silence made the slight sound at the doorway exceptionally clear.

Everyone's gaze subconsciously turned toward the entryway leading to the backyard.

Yu Bai was standing there. He had changed out of his jersey into a clean gray T-shirt and sweatpants, his hair still slightly damp, and he still carried the moisture of a fresh shower. The expression on his face was calm, calm to the point of being blank, only those eyes, illuminated by the warm yellow light from the house, were exceptionally bright, clearly reflecting the suddenly chilled air in the yard and the several faces with varying expressions.

He stood on the boundary between light and shadow, neither advancing nor retreating.

...