8: Chapter 8: How many Asian players are there in the Premier League?

The doorknob was still in Yu Bai's hand, the metallic chill seeping into his palm.

The entryway between the living room and the backyard was like an echo chamber.

Michael's words— "He's just a Chinese kid. In this line of football, Asians? Have you ever thought about what the odds are?"—still hung in the air.

Yu Bai stood on the threshold, neither entering nor retreating.

He saw Susan's hand, which had been wiping her apron, freeze against her stomach; he saw David's jawline tighten like a taut guitar string; he saw Grandma Margaret staring at her teacup.

The black tea in the cup reflected her motionless face.

Awkwardness has a shape.

It seeped out from the charcoal smoke in the backyard, mixed with the smell of burnt grease, and clogged everyone's throats.

Emily was the first to notice the movement at the doorway; her eyes had already turned, even though her hands were still skewering meat.

David followed, then Susan.

Finally, even Michael turned his head and locked eyes with Yu Bai.

His expression was not one of guilt.

It was the impatience of someone caught in a private moment, like a procedural loophole exposed by an opposing lawyer in court. He pursed his lips downward, lifted his chin slightly, let his gaze rest on Yu Bai's face for a fleeting moment, and then looked away.

Yu Bai didn't move.

He stood on the dividing line between the warm indoor light and the twilight of the courtyard, the collar of his grey T-shirt still damp from his recent shower.

Something was stuck in his throat, neither going up nor coming down.

Saying "I'm home" felt too deliberate, but saying nothing felt like sulking.

He opened his mouth.

The front door suddenly sounded.

The sound of a key turning in the lock followed, and then a peal of laughter, like wind chimes, drifted in.

Two figures swayed into the foyer.

The one in front was a young girl with chestnut curly hair loosely tied at the back of her head, a few stray strands clinging to her temples, and wearing very light makeup.

Her lips were painted a color between orange-red and bean paste, shining under the hallway light like a cherry just fished out of ice water.

She carried a guitar on her back, the case covered in colorful stickers—a few band logos, some cartoon cats, and one faded sticker that read "Fuck Mondays."

The man following her was tall, with dark hair and carefully groomed stubble on his chin, wearing a distressed leather jacket and carrying a bass guitar case.

His features weren't bad, but his brow bone was set low, giving him a condescending, scrutinizing look when he gazed at people.

The girl with the chestnut curls changed into slippers, looked up, and bumped into Yu Bai in the entryway.

She blinked.

Her eyelashes cast dense shadows under the hallway light.

Then she smiled, revealing a glimpse of her teeth—a smile that was both baseless and completely natural.

"You must be Yu Bai?"

Her voice was lower than Yu Bai had expected, with a slightly husky texture, like the faint background noise on the first few grooves of an old vinyl record.

She tilted her head to examine him, her gaze sliding from his damp hair to his grey T-shirt, then to his sweatpants, before finally returning to his face and resting there.

"You're handsome. You're the most handsome Chinese boy I've ever seen."

That was too blunt.

Not the bluntness of a pickup line, but the kind of bluntness when a child points at something in a shop window and says, "That looks nice."

No detours, no testing the waters.

Yu Bai was stunned for a moment; the awkwardness that had been clogging his throat was shattered by that sentence.

The tips of his ears began to burn.

Susan's reaction was faster than anyone's.

"That's my daughter for you."

Her voice drifted in from the backyard, filled with the relief of someone who had just survived a disaster. She set her beer bottle on the table and walked over in a few strides. "I said the same thing. Bai, come in, the barbecue will be ready in a minute."

As she spoke, she tried to convey something to Chloe with her eyes—a look that clearly said, "Thank God you're back; your mother was just about to die of secondhand embarrassment."

Chloe clearly didn't pick up on it.

She was already being dragged toward the backyard by her mother, calling back to Yu Bai as she went, "I'm Chloe! My mom mentioned me to you, right? She definitely did. If she didn't, just pretend you know me."

Liam followed behind her.

He paused when he passed by Yu Bai.

His gaze swept over, very quickly, like a money counter checking a bill—from head to toe, then from toe to head.

Then he twitched the corner of his mouth, a gesture meant to be a greeting, and walked toward the backyard carrying the bass guitar case.

Yu Bai watched their retreating backs and slowly exhaled.

A small patch of his T-shirt on his back was dampened by sweat.

It wasn't from the heat.

Yu Bai said he was going to change his clothes and went up to the third floor.

The room was just as it had been before he left in the morning.

The curtains were half-drawn, and the light from the streetlamp cut through the gap, drawing an orange-yellow line on the carpet.

He sat on the edge of the bed, not in a rush to take off his T-shirt.

In truth, he didn't need to change; wearing this down to the barbecue would be perfectly fine.

He just needed a few minutes.

The sounds of talking and laughter drifted faintly from downstairs.

Chloe's voice drifted up from the backyard; she was talking about the band's rehearsal today, about how the drummer threw his drumstick and hit the keyboardist's coffee cup.

Her voice was filled with laughter, intermittent and light.

Yu Bai took off his T-shirt and pulled a clean white T-shirt from the wardrobe to put on.

He looked in the mirror and felt it was too deliberate.

He hesitated, but didn't change back.

He sat on the edge of the bed and took out his phone.

The comment section on Dongqiudi was still growing. The chain of "Yu Bai is awesome" comments had already reached over three hundred replies, interspersed with a few "Congratulations from an Arsenal fan" and "Tottenham found a gem."

He scrolled through a few, then locked the screen.

Downstairs, the conversation by the barbecue grill was proceeding in hushed tones.

Emily was brushing honey onto the chicken wings, very slowly.

Her voice was very low, audible only to Susan and David, who was flipping the meat skewers.

"How did he actually play today? I arrived late and missed it."

Susan's hand paused.

She glanced back toward the living room; Michael was leaning back in a rattan chair, legs crossed, drinking beer, and chatting with Liam. The two of them were laughing loudly.

"A Hat-trick of assists."

Emily's brush hung in mid-air.

Honey dripped from the tip of the brush, landing on the edge of the charcoal, making a sizzling sound.

"What?"

"Three assists. And he won a penalty. The indirect assist from the corner kick counts for him too."

Susan's speed increased. "5-0 in the first half! Five goals, and all of them involved him. He played incredibly well! He conquered all the fans at the stadium; later on, every time he got the ball, you could hear the applause. He was the brightest star on the pitch!"

Emily's mouth hung open.

Another drop of honey dripped down.

"Wow!" Her voice cracked. "How long has he been here? Isn't this his first match?"

"His first match." David finally spoke.

He placed the grilled sausages onto a plate with steady movements, though the tongs made a soft clinking sound when they hit the rim of the plate. "So we were all shocked, very surprised. We never expected him to be this strong."

"Usually, young players who choose homestays aren't geniuses, and average families are also struggling..."

Before Susan could finish, footsteps came from the living room.

Chloe had changed into loungewear—a white linen shirt with sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her hair re-tied, revealing two small silver earrings.

She walked barefoot on the wooden floor, her ankles slender.

"What are you all talking about? You're whispering like you're plotting something."

"Nothing, go wash your hands and let's eat," Susan replied.

In the living room, the laughter of Michael and Liam erupted again.

Liam was telling the story of his "friend's friend's cousin," Harry Winks.

How Winks established himself in the Tottenham U18, how he was scouted by Mauricio Pochettino, and how he touched the threshold of the first team at seventeen.

He was very engrossed in his storytelling, gesturing broadly, the beer bottle swaying back and forth in his hand.

"What's the key? The key is the age ladder."

Liam held up a finger, his expression as serious as if he were giving a quarterly report. "Playing well in the Tottenham U18 isn't enough; you have to jump. Jump from Tottenham U18 to Tottenham U21, then from Tottenham U21 to the first-team bench. It's one link after another. If you can't make the jump, you get stuck. Why did Harry Winks succeed? Because he made every jump. What about those who didn't?"

He spread his hands, shrugged, and a sense of pity for those who hadn't made it crossed his face.

Michael nodded repeatedly.

He put down his beer bottle and summarized in the tone of a closing argument: "At the end of the day, it's all about probability. Out of a hundred Tottenham U18 players, how many make it to the Tottenham U21? How many make it to the first team? Think for yourself where an Asian player ranks in those odds."

Liam raised his bottle and clinked it against Michael's; the sound of the glass colliding was as crisp as a full stop.

Emily stood by the grill, having heard every word.

Her lips twitched, but she didn't say anything.

She just flipped the chicken wings she had brushed, doing it quite forcefully.

...

The grilled meat was piled into a small mountain on the plate.

Chicken wings, sausages, steak, corn, mushrooms—each was grilled to have beautiful char marks, their edges slightly curled.

Susan placed the last batch of grilled vegetables into a large bowl, sprinkled them with sea salt and black pepper, and brought them to the table.

The night had completely settled in.

The warm yellow light in the backyard illuminated the dining table, with moths fluttering around the lampshade, their wings making a faint clicking sound as they collided with it.

The wind after ten o'clock had a chill to it, and the charcoal in the grill had dimmed, leaving only a layer of grey-white embers that occasionally crackled, sending up a few sparks.

Yu Bai came down.

White T-shirt, sweatpants.

He stood by the table for a moment, scanning the seats.

David and Susan were still finishing up by the grill; Grandma Margaret was sitting in a rattan chair with a thin blanket over her legs.

Chloe was tuning her guitar strings, head down, her chestnut hair falling to cover half her face.

Michael and Liam were already seated, beer bottles by their hands.

Emily was setting the table.

Yu Bai didn't sit.

He stood by the table, his hand resting on the back of a chair, just standing there like that.

Susan walked over with a plate of grilled corn and paused, surprised. "Bai, sit down."

"I'm waiting for you."

Susan didn't quite catch it. "Waiting for what?"

"Waiting for you and Uncle David."

Yu Bai spoke softly, his tone flat, as if stating a fact that needed no explanation. He didn't look at Michael, nor did he look at Liam. His gaze rested on the table, on the empty plate amidst the steaming food.

Susan wiped her hands on her apron. Her nose suddenly felt a bit sore. She couldn't say why. Perhaps it was because the way the boy stood there was too quiet—quiet like a tree, with its roots wedged into the brick seams of someone else's backyard, yet still struggling to stand tall and straight.

Grandma Margaret set down her teacup. The bottom of the cup tapped against the saucer, making a light, clear, crisp sound.

"David, Susan." Her voice wasn't loud, but everyone heard it. "Put down what you're holding and sit down. The boy is waiting."

David and Susan exchanged a look, wiped their hands, and pulled out chairs to sit. Only then did Yu Bai take his seat, moving very lightly; the chair legs brushed against the floor tiles with almost no sound.

Grandma Margaret looked at Yu Bai, the corners of her mouth curving into a slow, deep arc. "Chinese people are very polite. This boy is very well-behaved."

Yu Bai lowered his head, the tips of his ears turning a little red. He twisted the edge of the tablecloth with his fingers.

Michael rolled his eyes. He rolled them so hard it looked like he was trying to squeeze his eyeballs out of their sockets. Then he grabbed a chicken wing, took a big bite, and spoke indistinctly.

"What's the use of being well-behaved?" He chewed the chicken, his voice squeezing out from a mixture of food and beer. "Mum, do you remember that Brazilian kid, what was his name, Joao? He was well-behaved too, waited for others to eat, and cleaned the room before he left. And now? He's back in his country, helping out at his dad's auto repair shop. And what about that Polish kid, Karol? Also well-behaved, never caused any trouble. And now? He's gone home, seems he's working as a supermarket cashier."

He counted on his fingers, very earnestly. "And that Jamaican kid—forget it, I can't even remember his name. These kids, every single one of them, who actually made it? Who? Stay in the Tottenham U18 for two years, and then what? Then nothing. Pack up and leave. Back home they go, or they change careers. That's reality."

He tossed the chicken bone onto his plate with a dull thud. Liam picked up where he left off. He set down his beer bottle, leaned back, crossed his legs, and spoke in that tone of "I'm talking like an insider."

"My friend's friend's cousin, Harry Winks, you know him, right?" He paused deliberately, his gaze sweeping across the table. Chloe kept her head down, drinking beer; Emily was cutting her steak; David and Susan were expressionless. Grandma Margaret held her teacup, her eyes drifting far away. No one replied.

Liam continued, raising his volume a little. "Winks is in Tottenham U21 now. But he already had a first-team appearance last year. Premier League. Think about it, what does that concept mean? Seventeen years old, Premier League. How did he do it? Skipping levels. Tottenham U18 to Tottenham U21, Tottenham U21 to first-team substitute. You can't break a single step. Break one step, and it's all over. Those who didn't make the jump, they play Tottenham U18 until they're nineteen, and then what? Loaned out to the EFL League One or EFL League Two, mess around for a few years, and disappear. That's football."

After he finished, he picked up his beer and took a gulp. Michael raised his bottle to clink with him, a look of having found a kindred spirit on his face.

"Spot on. Skipping levels. The key is skipping levels." He took a bite of corn, juice spilling from the corner of his mouth; he wiped it with the back of his hand and nodded his chin in Yu Bai's direction. "Heard you were kicked out by Arsenal? Spent a few years over there and didn't even get to play a single official Tottenham U18 match. Now that you're at Tottenham, can you even get on the pitch?"

The question was asked very lightly. It wasn't an interrogative tone, but a condescending, pitying curiosity. The fork in Yu Bai's hand paused. The tip was stuck in half a cherry tomato; tomato juice seeped out, staining a small circle of light red on the white porcelain plate. He looked up and opened his mouth.

"Michael." Susan's voice arrived before his. She didn't look at Michael, staring at the steak on her own plate, gripping her knife and fork so tightly her knuckles turned white. "Can't the barbecue even shut your mouth?"

Michael shrugged, not taking it to heart. He turned to continue clinking glasses with Liam, their laughter echoing in the backyard.

Liam spoke again. This time he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, looking at Yu Bai in a "let's be honest" pose. "Honestly, I'm not targeting you. I'm talking about Asian football as a whole. How many Asian players do you see in the Premier League? Son Heung-min, that's a Korean, the ceiling of Asian football. What about the others? From China, how many can actually play in the Premier League? Your body can't keep up, the rhythm can't keep up, and once the physical contact starts, you crumble. Tottenham U18 is fine, but once you get to Tottenham U21, it's all beasts. Can you handle that?"

He paused, took a sip of beer to moisten his throat, a subtle curve appearing at the corner of his mouth. "I heard that in some places, you have to pay to get on the pitch. Parents slip red envelopes to the coaches to buy playing time for their kids. Is that pretty common in China? Of course, I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about..." He didn't finish.

Chloe set down her beer bottle. The bottom clicked against the table with a dull thud. "Liam." Chloe's voice was lower than usual. It lacked that bouncy lilt she usually had when she spoke, like a guitar that had just been tuned suddenly having its strings pressed down. "Say a little less."

Liam's expression changed. It didn't become angry; it became ugly. That ugliness started from his eyes. First, a stinging sense of disbelief, then bitterness, then annoyance. He opened his mouth, his Adam's apple bobbed, and he forced down a gulp of beer. He looked at Chloe, then at Yu Bai.

Liam gripped the beer bottle tightly. His fingers pressed white marks against the glass. He didn't speak, but his eyes changed. If the previous words were just offhand, habitual snark, carried with a nonchalance that showed off his superiority, then now, his hostility had a clear target.

Yu Bai saw it all. He lowered his head. He used his fork to pop that half-cherry tomato into his mouth and chewed. The sweet-and-sour taste of the tomato exploded on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed it and forked another one.

He really wanted to speak up. Not to refute, but to curse. Every word Liam said was like stuffing a ball of fire into his heart— "Asian players," "red envelopes"—each sentence precisely stepped on the place he least wanted anyone to step. He clenched his fingers under the table, his nails digging into his palms. Then he let go.

He looked up, his gaze sweeping across the table. Susan was looking at him, her eyes mixed with guilt and worry. The corners of David's mouth were pressed into a line, his jaw tight. Grandma Margaret held her teacup, the rim against her lips, not drinking, her eyes watching him from above the rim, quiet, loving. These people were good to him. Very good. So good that it made him feel that if he lost his temper here, he would let something down.

Even when beating a dog, you have to look at the master. When this thought popped into his mind, Yu Bai almost amused himself. He swallowed the tomato and picked up his glass to take a sip of water. The ice water slid down his throat, extinguishing the fire in his chest a little. He set down the glass and stood up.

"Aunt Susan, Uncle David, Grandma." He called out to each of them, very clearly. He left a tiny gap between each address, like stamping a postmark on a letter. "I have training tomorrow, so I need to sleep early. I'm going up now."

He picked up his empty plate and walked toward the sink. The porcelain plate clattered against the bottom of the stainless steel sink, making a light sound. He turned and walked toward the stairs. Chloe's voice caught up to him. "No way?" Yu Bai stopped.

Chloe's brows knit slightly. The expression on her face was genuine confusion, not skepticism, but confusion, like a student who was good at math seeing an incorrectly calculated equation. "I know the schedule for Tottenham U18. Usually, the day after a match is a day off. Did you remember wrong?"

Susan also stood up, wiping her hands on her apron twice. "That's right, Bai, we were planning to take you out for a spin tomorrow. Are you sure you have training tomorrow?"

Yu Bai turned around. He stood at the threshold between the backyard and the foyer, his white T-shirt fluttering slightly in the draft. He looked at Susan, then at Chloe. Mother and daughter stood under the same light. One had dark chestnut hair, the other light brown, yet their facial contours were strikingly similar. Especially their eyes, both round and bright, like two freshly washed grapes. Chloe's skin was so fair it was almost transparent; one could see the fine, blue veins near her temples. She tilted her head, waiting for his answer.

Michael was fair too. But Michael's fairness was a pallor cultivated in office buildings, which, paired with his features, always made one feel something was missing. Standing at this angle, Yu Bai watched the light trace a clean, sharp arc along Chloe's profile, and a very impolite thought popped into his mind. Chloe didn't look much like Uncle David either. David's face was square and solid, like a reef worn down by the sea for many years. But Chloe's contours were light and airy.

Yu Bai pushed the thought down. It was too offensive. But Chloe's question just now had handed him a way out. Or rather, not just a way out, but a stage. She asked so naturally, so genuinely, with a kind of curiosity devoid of any ulterior motives. She wasn't trying to help him out of a tight spot; she really wanted to know the answer. But it was precisely this pure, uncalculated curiosity that shifted the spotlight to his feet. At this moment, Yu Bai's affection for Chloe deepened, silently and solidly.