After signing with AC Milan, I will be the king of football!-Chapter 216 - 0136 Introduction to Physics (Subscribe please)_4

"Milan’s counterattack!"

"Pirlo sends a long pass to the right, Kevin gets the ball in front of the right penalty area."

"He’s surrounded by three defenders, Kevin taps the ball with his right foot into the box."

"Is that a foul by Rossi?"

"Kevin...he shoots!"

The moment Rossi crashed into Huang Kaiwen, Huang Kaiwen’s right foot swung out with the outside of his boot.

The ball still curved dramatically towards the far post.

This shot captured the attention of all the fans.

Because of Huang Kaiwen, Doni’s positioning was to the right, and even as he dove to the left, he still couldn’t stop the ball from drilling into the top-left corner.

Stadio Olimpico in Rome.

Some fans had already started to leave.

Huang Kaiwen lay in the penalty area.

He had wanted to see through this game.

But since the opponent had ’given face,’ he couldn’t very well not ’take’ it.

"Rossi receives a red card."

"The referee points to the penalty spot, Huang Kaiwen’s goal doesn’t count."

"Here’s the thing, if the shot happens before the foul, the goal stands, but this time Rossi fouled after Huang Kaiwen’s shot, so the referee has given a penalty." freёnovelkiss.com

"Huang Kaiwen is stretchered off the pitch."

"Kaka doesn’t seem to want to take the penalty, Shevchenko is standing at twelve yards, run-up... and he scores!"

"2:4, Milan has turned the game around after Huang Kaiwen came on."

"Rome was happy for 50 minutes today, but in the end, they didn’t get a single point."

"I wonder how Huang Kaiwen’s injury is?"

"The referee blows the final whistle, Milan’s players head straight to the sidelines, they’re probably going to visit Huang Kaiwen."

"Alright, that’s it for today’s live coverage of the match."

A heated discussion ensued on the forum.

"Huang Kaiwen getting injured makes me comfortable."

"I’m suspecting now that the entire Milan team is acting; otherwise, how do you explain Huang Kaiwen never getting injured when they’re behind? You see the whole team seems anxious."

"Stop it, bro, Huang Kaiwen that asshole is just a damn faker, and now I even have to go stay in a motel."

"Hahaha, bro, did your girlfriend really go back to the dorm?"

"Is that even a question, it’s all fucking Huang Kaiwen’s fault."

"You’re not even the worst off, I study physics, the last time our professor made us calculate the speed of Huang Kaiwen’s mid-field long shot, after today’s match, I bet we’re gonna have to study that fucker’s outside instep curve ball, who knew having a fan professor could be so torturous."

...

Before his teammates could arrive.

Huang Kaiwen had already been examined.

His concussion recurred.

Huang Kaiwen had found out.

Concussions and Jade Syndrome are the same.

If you say it is, then it is; they can’t be detected on tests.

But even after the check-up.

Huang Kaiwen didn’t leave.

Kaka always bought fruit and flowers every time he visited.

Just in time to take them to Maldini’s house for a sick visit tomorrow.

And to apply some eye medicine to Christian.

That kid actually wanted him, Huang Kaiwen, to help with homework.

Maldini must step up the education of the Young Master; if he doesn’t break a few belts, Huang Kaiwen couldn’t agree.

...

With the fruit basket and flowers in hand, Huang Kaiwen returned home satisfied, had dinner, and went to bed early.

The outside world had gone mad over Huang Kaiwen’s performance in today’s game.

Whether it was the free kick from the left sideline.

Or the corner kick that went straight for goal.

Both goals had many physicists scratching their heads.

And they became interested in studying them.

There was once a ball that received such treatment.

It was Carlos’s free kick in the 1997 Tournoi de France against France.

Carlos’s shot looked as though it was flying outside the post, only to curve inward and fly inside the net.

That too had caused quite a stir at the time.

Huang Kaiwen’s free kicks were now receiving the same treatment.

But it would still take time for the situation to ferment.

The ones jumping out at this moment were all talk.

The real research conclusions needed more time.

The next day.

The young lady was worried about Huang Kaiwen.

When she went to work, she specifically instructed the old butler that Huang Kaiwen must be allowed to wake up naturally.

Just as Huang Kaiwen was still in sweet slumber,

clad in a black overcoat, Ancelotti braved the wind and snow to enter a clinic.

"Do you have an appointment?"

the receptionist asked indifferently.

This was Milan’s finest psychological clinic; without an appointment, they basically ignored you.

"Yes, Filippo Ferrari,"

mumbled Ancelotti, wrapped up tight.

After checking the book, the receptionist said, "Go on in, seeing a psychologist isn’t something to be ashamed of."

Ancelotti froze.

The front desk lady disdainfully said, "We have no fewer than 100 Ferraris making appointments every year."

Ancelotti walked into the consultation room, a bit downcast.

He had thought his pseudonym was quite good.

Yet a receptionist had easily seen through it.

The doctor said kindly, "Have a seat."

Ancelotti observed the doctor.

Probably in his mid-forties, with thinning hair and the occasional white strand, a prominent nose, and eyes hidden underneath spectacles, he seemed quite formidable.

Ancelotti didn’t bother hiding his identity any longer.

He took off his overcoat, removed his hat, scarf, and sunglasses.

"Carlo!" the doctor exclaimed somewhat excitedly, "I’m a Milan fan, it’s a pleasure to see you. My name is Lister, Leon Lister."

"Well, that’s just great, but I’d rather not see fans in a psychological clinic,"

Ancelotti said, raising an eyebrow humorously.

He wasn’t trying to be funny, but his eyebrows appeared quite comical.

"Don’t worry, as a Milan fan, I’ll definitely protect your privacy. When you leave, there won’t be any record of you being here," Dr. Lister said with a smile.

"That... that would be best,"

Ancelotti said, breathing a sigh of relief.

After casually discussing the team for a bit and seeing Ancelotti relax, Dr. Lister asked, "Is there something troubling you?"

"Sometimes I feel like killing people. Does that mean I have a psychological problem?"

Ancelotti asked uneasily.

Dr. Lister shook his head with a smile and said, "It depends on the context. Many people have impulsive thoughts out of anger, but they don’t act on them. So can you tell me why you have such thoughts?"

"Well, sometimes when I see other players causing Kevin to get injured, I want to kill them," Ancelotti said, pulling out a Death Note.

"Materazzi?" Dr. Lister asked.

"Yes, and many other players, like the recent Rossi, and before that Capello; he actually screamed for his players to tackle Kevin," Ancelotti said with a sneer.

Dr. Lister’s face turned a peculiar shade of flushed as he nodded, "In that case, those people indeed deserve to die. Have you ever thought about how to punish these wrongdoers? Soccer is becoming uglier because of these people; they are destroying an art form."

"No... No, I just think about it," Ancelotti said, feeling something amiss, stumbling over his words.

"Maybe you can make up an excuse to call them over, say to discuss transfers, promise them high salaries and a starting position, tell them not to tell anyone until it’s settled, not even their families..."

Watching Dr. Lister continue without end,

Ancelotti quietly stood up.

He picked up his clothes from the coat rack.

Carrying his clothes, he quietly stepped out of the consultation room.

Ancelotti broke into a run.

As he left, he forgot it was push, not pull, and bumped into the door.

He stumbled down the steps,

falling several times before he reached his car.

"Damn it!"

After fumbling for his keys, Ancelotti tried twice without success to unlock the car door.

On the third attempt, he finally inserted the key and opened the door.

He sighed in relief, tossing his clothes onto the passenger seat,

sat in the driver’s seat, started the car, and with a press of the accelerator, shot away.

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