Before the clouds part and the sun emerges, there is still mist lingering in the air.

This is where the joy of football lies—the concepts of strength and weakness are always relative. Watching professional teams play, you might think they're not all that impressive, but that's because their opponents are of similar level; both sides end up scrambling, making mistake after mistake.

It's not that the hospital staff team is particularly formidable—if they faced a professional squad, they'd be soundly defeated and utterly lost. But up against a wild team with no formal training, no concept of formation, and no sense of collective play, every move they make is methodical and far superior, completely overwhelming their opponents. Their straightforward, practical style that emphasizes counterattacks doesn't require dazzling footwork; the tactical demands, while a bit strict, are simple enough. At this level of amateur play, their team looks masterful and in control!

Because this is a team of eleven moving as one. Once they're familiar with the formation, the relationships between players become clear and simple, allowing them to dispatch the other side with ease.

In the second half, even after substituting all nine reserve players, as amateur rules allow, they continued to dominate, finishing with a decisive twelve-to-nil victory.

The medical students and hospital cheering section on the sidelines erupted in joy, while the opposing team was so frustrated they threatened to report them—suspecting the hospital had recruited professional players to cheat. After all, it seemed impossible for a group of doctors to display such tactical prowess.

To the biochemistry team, this was the highest praise; they beamed and came forward to introduce themselves one by one. Even if not all of them were famous in their respective specialties, a bit of professional jargon or a quick inquiry would confirm their identities, leaving their opponents in disbelief.

Scoring over ten goals left the cheering squad in the stands almost exhausted, but they still celebrated the team's resounding victory. Nurses crowded around the players, fussing over them, while only Bai Haonan walked slowly across the pitch, arms folded.

He was savoring the sense of achievement from directing the team.

For the past decade or two, he'd always stood behind Old Chen—at first supplying him with detailed data, then gradually making decisions on his own, eventually managing the game from the field. But today marked his first true experience as an independent coach.

No one else knew that even the order in which he substituted the nine reserves was deliberate: who came on first to target and break the opponent's resistance, who came on later to maintain pressure in key positions. This feeling of orchestrating everything, of having every player follow his command, was vastly different from being a defensive midfielder pretending to dictate strategy.

It seemed that all of life's disappointments and darkness faded away on this green field; only here did he truly feel happy.

No one understood what he felt, no one knew how much he loved the pitch and the ball, or how much he despised the pervasive falseness and filth in life. He never watched TV, movies, or talent shows—he considered all that nonsense fake, all just an act.

Only football, at least at this level, was real. When more than twenty people ran across the pitch, everything was genuine—no acting.

Just as he once rediscovered the joy of street football on this very field, Bai Haonan, in a fleeting moment, glimpsed the possibility of future happiness: Could he be a football coach?

At the thought, his immediate reaction was to roll his eyes in self-mockery—could this ever put food on the table?

He wasn't stupid, not at all. All of this was only possible because of these players' interest. As Qiao Yingna had once hinted, these players would never truly be his peers: they were intellectuals, attending physicians, academic leaders, people who traveled to conferences in Europe and America, fluent in foreign languages—society's elite. Football was just a hobby and a way to stay fit for them.

He was more like a fitness trainer; without these privileged players, how could he make a living? Outside the professional system, being a football coach was a joke.

Bai Haonan knew that even if he wanted to coach in the professional world, it would still be a joke. With his credentials, he'd never be head coach—perhaps all his life, he'd be an assistant, and only someone like Old Chen, who knew him well, would give him that chance. Others wouldn't even spare a glance at someone whose career had achieved nothing.

And what could a football coach accomplish? Save Chinese football?

Now, that was the biggest joke of all.

Bai Haonan, immersed in it, never believed anyone could completely revive the football scene; it was perhaps the dirtiest business of all. With his athlete's mindset, he never entertained such grand ideas.

And yet, football was the only thing he was any good at, or truly loved! Was he supposed to make a living by chasing women?

Bai Haonan chuckled to himself—a common expression when he was tangled in complex thoughts.

At that moment, the players on the sideline began to call out to him in unison: "Brother Hao! Brother Hao..."

Their intellectual background showed; seeing Brother Hao—usually so lacking in scholarly air—wandering the field, arms folded, head bowed like a poet, they knew he was feeling something profound, though what exactly was unclear. Out of politeness, they waited until a bemused smile appeared on his face before calling out to him.

Bai Haonan turned and saw the row of players, arms around each other's shoulders, gazing at him with eager eyes. He understood their post-victory excitement and walked over with a smile, about to speak—when he saw Guo Xiaoxiao approaching, hands behind her back. It was the third type of police uniform he'd seen her wear. Maybe the light blue shirt before was summer wear, the jumpsuit was SWAT gear, and this near-black outfit was autumn or winter attire? Whatever it was, it looked even more striking and authoritative.

Of course, all of this depended on her looks. Put a plump aunt in that uniform and it would lose all its allure; but as Guo Xiaoxiao walked over, she was like a frosty iron: wherever she went, the cheers died down—not because she was suppressing anyone, but because people would stop to look at her and forget to cheer.

Even the players felt the hush behind them, turned, and quickly dispersed, leaving Bai Haonan exposed, then eagerly gathered nearby to listen in on whatever the policewoman had to say.

Guo Xiaoxiao was actually quite friendly: "Congratulations, you all played very well. Especially you—number eight, that goal you scored, the way you dribbled and shot was so fluid—very impressive..."

If another woman had said this, it might have sounded girlish and giddy. Coming from a policewoman, especially one with her imposing stature, there was nothing coquettish about it. Number eight, singled out, was flattered and a little nervous: "Really? You know football too? Thank you, thank you, that's rare..."

Guo Xiaoxiao got straight to the point: "I know this was your first match, and you're probably eager to celebrate, but I've arranged something with your Coach Liu, and time is a bit tight..."

In an instant, the emotionally charged players abandoned Bai Haonan, scattering like birds: "Ah, you two go ahead, we'll celebrate every game, haha! We're off to celebrate, Brother Hao, we'll wait for you..."

He was left standing before Guo Xiaoxiao, with none of his usual bravado: "So... we're going to see your father?"

Guo Xiaoxiao nodded and turned, striding ahead with a hint of pride. In front of everyone, Bai Haonan felt like a criminal being apprehended. Some nurses even took photos from afar, probably planning to tease him later. Watching the sway of her hips, he couldn't help but mutter to himself, "It's just a tiger's skin—take it off and she's no different..."

But as soon as they left the field and entered the shade beneath the oleander trees, the policewoman turned, seemingly offhand: "What's your ID number? I searched a whole list of Liu Hao and didn't see anyone who looked like you."

A cold sweat broke out on Bai Haonan's back.