Alas, how lamentable that the pinnacle of one’s career rises ever higher.

If Xiu’er’s bold confession and desire to normalize their relationship had already made Bai Haonan realize that the circle of nurses at the First Affiliated Hospital wasn’t a place where he could idly while away his time, then Guo Sasa’s connection to a police family confirmed for him that his days in Rongdu were numbered.

Perhaps, just as he had explained to Chen Sufen, once he finished coaching these two teams through their matches, it would truly be time to leave. The situation at hand could unravel at any moment, and the identity of Liu Hao, which he had invented offhand, would be of no further use.

Yet Bai Haonan hadn’t expected things to move so quickly.

The schedule for the healthcare system’s football tournament was tight. After all, doctors had their true professions to attend to. Were it not for football’s growing popularity among the urban populace over the years, such a large-scale competition would never have been staged. Though it attracted little outside attention, within the medical system, at least to those who loved the sport, it was a festival—a welcome excitement compared to the endless cycle of surgeries, academic conferences, and the monotony of work and family. The two staff teams from the University Medical Affiliated Hospitals were particularly enthusiastic.

So, even though the matches came thick and fast, the doctors were almost never absent. After four group-stage games, both teams advanced as group leaders. At this point, their peers had yet to realize the rise of these two teams, but among the university’s students—especially the male students—there was already a fervent transformation: they had become devoted fans of their “senior brothers,” and naturally, loyal followers of Hao-ge as well. Rumor had it that there was talk of inviting Hao-ge to coach the university’s team, even if for a lower salary; surely, he would stay to help, at least until Senior Qiao graduated in a year’s time.

After all, the two teams now bore a distinct stamp.

The students, ever fond of spirited debate, claimed that Hao-ge’s leadership had a touch of Mourinho’s magic, with that same steely determination. The girls would then ask who this “Mister Mou” was, and the boys would proudly explain that he was the world’s most brilliant football manager.

Whenever Bai Haonan led his teams onto the field, whether at the university or away, the stands would be filled with Medical University students, pushing the hospital-organized cheer squads to the sidelines. It was said these two teams brought the best atmosphere to the entire tournament. So when the Second Affiliated Hospital’s team, having made it past the group stage, drew the renowned Railway Hospital, the university’s football ground was packed to the brim.

The young doctors said that the Railway Hospital had a long-standing football tradition and often recruited skilled players from the railway system itself. For a hospital affiliated with such a massive state-owned enterprise, even the Medical University’s own hospital was dwarfed in comparison. Bai Haonan knew that twenty years ago, the railway system had its own independent sports association, the Locomotive Athletic Club, which could stand toe-to-toe with provincial teams. Though that had since been dissolved, the legacy remained: in the past seven tournaments, the Railway Hospital had claimed the championship three times. The Second Affiliated team couldn’t help but feel they were reaching the end of the line.

Yet, just as in their first match, the players weren’t dejected; instead, they were excited—thrilled, in fact, at the prospect of facing a mighty opponent.

In truth, during the group stage, the makeshift team from the Second Affiliated Hospital had performed even better than the First Affiliated. They were stronger to begin with, and due to a twist of fate, their team trained every morning. Anyone who’s ever held a job knows the difference between getting up two hours early to train before work and playing for two hours after a long day; the former demands far more willpower.

Though both teams were dear to him, Bai Haonan inwardly favored the Second Affiliated’s squad. Perhaps it was a desire to challenge the stronger, more prestigious First Affiliated, or perhaps something else, but this group’s dedication and discipline had been clear; it was why Bai Haonan had offhandedly suggested they enter the tournament in the first place—he couldn’t bear to see them disband.

This staff team’s mainstay formation was the 5-4-1: five defenders, four midfielders, one striker. Their forward had studied in Germany and even briefly played for a semi-professional team there. As Bai Haonan told them, “What I teach is aimed at most players. But for someone like Old Zhou, who’s got that spark, I want everyone to play around him. Football, after all, is a sport where the majority rely on sweat, and a gifted few rely on talent. Old Zhou has that talent; if he’d entered the professional system when younger, perhaps we’d be short one attending physician now.”

Old Zhou, thirty-three, would always respond with a hearty laugh—clearly a man with stories of his own.

Even Zhou himself might not fully grasp where his football talent lay. His acceleration, ball control, dribbling, and shooting were only a bit above average, far from professional standards, yet in amateur circles he scored time and again, and his teammates loved playing alongside him.

Bai Haonan’s tactics were to have the team maintain a defensive posture in the first half—5-4-1 is naturally defensive—much as he had done with the Blue Wind team, quietly observing for the first half. As long as they didn’t concede, the second half would be their opportunity to strike. Sometimes, Old Zhou would only come on after halftime, given the limited stamina of amateur players.

Today was no different. Bai Haonan and Old Zhou stood by the steps near the main stand, not even watching as their own defenders seemed to teeter on the edge, instead quietly analyzing the opposition’s defense to his striker: “See that center-back’s habits? Whenever we clear the ball, he always tilts his head back, eyes on the ball, retreating to receive it. That means he’s not confident judging where the ball will land. Look, look… misjudged it!”

The Second Affiliated had just lofted a high ball, and though the Railway Hospital had been dominating, their last center-back, while trying to intercept, kept backpedaling and leaped backward—only to miss the header completely.

“Missing the header” is the professional term for misjudging an aerial ball—when the head and the ball don’t meet at the critical moment. It’s not uncommon, even at the top level, given the challenge of judging speed, force, angle, even wind, and having only one’s head—a clumsy tool—to intercept it. Mistakes happen, especially with the goalkeeper behind; sometimes the center-back will even feign a miss to let the keeper collect it.

But Bai Haonan seized on this detail, whispering to Old Zhou: “Four steps. Remember, four steps. If that center-back backpedals more than four steps to meet an aerial ball, it’ll always drop behind him—he’ll always miss it! Actually, this isn’t just about him; in my experience, it’s true about eighty percent of the time. But with this center-back, it’s one hundred percent!”

The doctor who’d studied in Germany’s eyes shone. “So I sprint early, just at that moment?”

Bai Haonan knew he’d found their weakness. “Go warm up; in the second half we’ll focus on lofting balls over their defense. As soon as he starts backpedaling, and if it’s more than four steps, go all out and sprint behind him! You’ll always find the ball dropping there—then it’s just you and the keeper.”

Long after, Old Zhou would tell this story everywhere he went, reminiscing about his glory days after retiring from the amateur circuit. The “four steps back” trick became his lethal weapon in Rongdu’s football scene.

No one ever understood how he always managed to slip behind the defenders and receive so many one-on-one chances against the keeper—the ultimate dream for any striker. Bai Haonan’s simple, straightforward coaching seemed almost like cheating.

In the first half, the Second Affiliated were down three to zero against the Railway Hospital. But after the break, following their special instructions, every time the defenders or midfielders got the ball, they launched it deep into the opposition’s half. Old Zhou, quietly subbed on, snatched four one-on-one chances in just twenty minutes!

Even after the error-prone center-back was substituted, he still managed to break through twice more, thanks to his intelligence on the pitch.

The Railway Hospital, expecting an easy path to the championship, had even rested two starters at halftime. No one could have foreseen this turn of events—something so unbelievable it defied all expectations!