36. The Second Spring of Life’s Endeavors?

However, the two neurologists couldn’t resist their professional curiosity; both wanted to open up Bai Haonan’s head for a look. After training, they insisted he accompany them to the department for an MRI scan! Bai Haonan wasn’t a country bumpkin—he’d had a few MRIs before, either following injuries at the club or during annual checkups. When he heard the pair offer a full-body scan for free, he couldn’t resist; it wasn’t the money that tempted him, but the certainty of a thorough, meticulous examination. After all, his livelihood depended on his body now.

This was a far cry from paying thousands and queuing up for an MRI, only to receive perfunctory service—such was reality, and Bai Haonan understood it well.

Even with finals looming, many students still came to watch the team’s collective training, but no one could really hear what Bai Haonan was quietly explaining at length to the players in the center circle. What everyone did notice was that these seniors—figures all underclassmen looked up to—were unusually close to Hao, treating him as an equal, if not more. If Hao patted someone’s shoulder, the recipient would be deeply grateful. The two attending neurologists, meanwhile, were almost obsequious in their flattery.

China is a society built on relationships—especially in medicine, where mentorships and patronage matter immensely. These seniors, who would one day become powerful figures in their field, already wielded significant resources. Even the slightest favor could change an underclassman’s future.

This Hao, it was said, only played football at the university because of his girlfriend; he even inquired about talent show auditions for her. Such devotion was touching.

Naturally, everyone assumed he would seek benefits for his girlfriend. Thus, news and rumors filtered back to Qiao Yingna. At dinner, someone would politely ask why she wasn’t watching from the sidelines; in the library or study lounge, another would wonder aloud why she wasn’t accompanying her boyfriend. Back in the dorm, she’d be asked if they’d quarreled—Hao was now quite the catch, after all, and he treated her so well. Shouldn’t she be actively networking, making arrangements for the coming year, their final before graduation...?

Qiao Yingna was at her wit’s end.

She felt as if she were perpetually tossed by waves of inner turmoil. It had taken all her resolve to push him from her mind, only to have others mention him again and again, each time with stories of what they’d seen: who he seemed closest to, which attending neurologist had their arm around him as they left, questions about clinical specialties... Someone would approach with a conspiratorial air, face alight as if their very pimples glowed, and say they weren’t sure whether to share some news—Qiao Yingna knew at once it meant Bai Haonan had been seen with another woman.

Such gossip was irresistible, especially for those less fortunate in looks. There was a sense of schadenfreude—serves you right for being brazen, for always seeking attention, for dressing so shamelessly; now your boyfriend’s strayed, and you had it coming!

All these thoughts seemed written plainly on their faces. Qiao Yingna replied flatly, “If you’re not sure whether to say it, then don’t.”

Her interlocutor looked as constipated as if holding something in, but still seemed desperate to unload.

In the end, Qiao Yingna heard all the rumors: he’d gone clubbing with seven nurses, gone out alone with one from inpatient, something about a dental nurse—it was a deluge of conflicting stories. Even the rumor-mongers themselves seemed uncertain, their tales contradictory.

First, Qiao Yingna marveled inwardly. How had he managed to stir up so much trouble in just a few days? He was like a dog in heat, relentless every day.

Then she smiled without comment, projecting calm indifference. “It’s all true, all of it. Why not just say he’s slept with every beautiful woman in Rongdu? I’d be proud if he had! Anyway, I’m reading now...”

Naturally, everyone watched her closely. But they found no trace of the tearful, resentful woman they’d expected. Instead, Qiao Yingna seemed at ease, breezing through the flurry of exams as if untouched by her boyfriend’s escapades.

Even as the holiday began, Bai Haonan did not come to see her off or take her home; she managed everything herself, light and unburdened.

Qiao Yingna truly felt liberated, almost elevated. If there had once been vanity in dating Bai Haonan—fear that her secret would be exposed—now that everything was out in the open, she could finally let go, unconcerned with others’ opinions and almost accustomed to being the topic of gossip.

She felt she had finally severed her ties with that wretch. It was time to spend quality days with her parents, for this would be her last summer vacation; whether she became a singer or a doctor, she would never again have such carefree holidays.

Meanwhile, Bai Haonan’s first coaching job was progressing smoothly. Coaching two teams each day, morning and evening, was an intriguing experience. He would test a training plan at the Affiliated Hospital in the afternoon, then adjust it for the next morning with another amateur team. It was like preparing a lesson, trying it out, gathering feedback, then refining it. Some ideas that seemed obvious to professional players or even sports school students simply didn’t work with amateurs. Some things, no matter how much he experimented, simply couldn’t be taught to these teams.

Sports schools did have academic courses, but Bai Haonan, destined for a professional squad from an early age thanks to his father and Old Chen, had long since given up on those. He could barely stumble through reading a newspaper; everything else was a mystery. He’d never been one to study—in all these years, football was his only focus. He never read for pleasure, ignored subtitles even in English films, and aside from football, learning to drive was his only other skill. He’d never studied football theory systematically, either, because he’d never thought about long-term plans for his future. At worst, he figured, he’d just become Old Chen’s assistant. Even now, that was his plan.

So his current interest in devising training plans was purely out of curiosity.

Of course, he didn’t have much time to devote to it, relying mostly on instinct, because all his spare time was spent chasing women.

To be precise, he wasn’t really chasing; it was simply a matter of immediate gratification. The results of his full-body checkup confirmed he was in excellent health. Many professional athletes balloon in weight once they stop intensive training and competition, but that hadn’t happened to Bai Haonan. Apart from the occasional drink, his diet remained as before. In addition to four hours of daily coaching, he was often “coaching female fitness” in a variety of settings, which kept him in shape.

Having tasted the benefits, Bai Haonan found a theoretical justification for his reckless behavior and began to frequent outside gyms.

It wasn’t that he purposely avoided “fouling his own nest” for the sake of his reputation at work. It was simply that, no matter how delicious the dishes, one craves variety after a while. The nurses, diverse as they were, were all too easy to win over, but since they all worked together, repeated liaisons inevitably led to complications—rivalries and entanglements about who mattered more. Out of sheer curiosity and a desire for novelty, Bai Haonan started seeking excitement at local fitness centers, often using Wang Jianguo’s ID to book hotel rooms.

He was cunning—never bringing women back to Qiao Yingna’s rented place. At the medical university, he always used the Liu Hao alias. Despite spending several hundred yuan on a convincing fake ID, Bai Haonan knew that all standardized hotels now had guest databases, so it would be easy to get caught.

It would take a gathering of all the women from the university to realize: Hao never booked hotel rooms. He’d hook up at gyms, in cars, in nurse dorms, or any discreet corner, but never a hotel. When asked, he’d say his girlfriend was a police officer and could check his hotel records at any time—a convenient warning to those unaware of such things.

But as the saying goes, walk in the dark long enough and you’ll meet a ghost. Sooner or later, Hao got himself into trouble.