When the final whistle pierced the air, a thunderous roar erupted from the stands of Galgenwaard Stadion. The crowd exploded in celebration. On the pitch, Yang Yang raised his arms and let out a guttural shout, the release of everything he had held inside—pressure, exhaustion, and pure, overwhelming joy.
Around him, teammates were shouting, jumping, falling to their knees in disbelief. From the sidelines, the coaches, substitutes, and support staff came rushing onto the pitch like a wave crashing toward the center. One after another, they surrounded Yang Yang, forming a circle of celebration and emotion.
He could barely stand. His body was beyond exhausted, his legs stiff with cramps. But he remained upright, slowly shaking hands, embracing teammates, and quietly soaking in the moment.
He realized, as he looked into the faces around him, how many were crying. Some wiped their eyes discreetly, others simply gave in, shoulders shaking with emotion. There was no shame in it. These were the same players who had trained beside him last year at the Toulon Cup, who had fought with him at the Asian Youth Championship, some who had traveled across the continent for World Cup qualifiers—and now, they had reached the top of the world together even if it was just a youth tournament.
For many of them, this might be the greatest moment of their careers. Because today, they weren't just finalists or survivors. Today, they were world champions.
Yang Yang found Chen Tao, his face soaked with tears, and held him by the shoulders. "Don't cry," he said, voice tight and unsteady. "Don't cry. We're world champions now. We have to smile—we've earned that right." He turned and patted Feng Xiaoting's back, who had buried his face into his shirt, trying to hold back sobs. "We can tell the world now, with pride... we're world champions. No one can take that away from us."
Their voices broke, but their unity held. The players gathered close, heads together, arms over shoulders. It wasn't rehearsed—it was instinct. They stood in a tight circle, forming the final image of a team that had refused to break.
The moment was caught live by the cameras, and the fans inside the stadium—Chinese, Dutch, and neutral—stood still, watching in silence.
There had been so much disappointment in Chinese football. Too many collapses at crucial moments. Too many stories that ended in regret. There were systemic problems, historical weight, and far too many scars.
But none of that mattered now. This group had done their part.
They didn't talk about fixing the system or rewriting the past.
They just played.
And they won.
Because for a player, in the end, that is the greatest answer possible.
After the match celebrations began to calm down, the players turned toward the stands to salute the fans, still overwhelmed by emotion.
This was the privilege of the winners.
From where he stood, Yang Yang laughed as he watched his teammates throw Krautzun into the air. The German coach was old and stiff, and for a second Yang Yang worried they might give him a heart attack. But he couldn't blame them. After all, this man had just coached China to a world title. What else could they do?
Just as he was smiling to himself, someone tapped him from behind. He turned and found Lionel Messi standing there quietly.
"Congratulations," said the Argentine softly.
Yang Yang turned fully and extended a hand. "Thank you. You played really well."
"But I still lost," Messi replied. His tone was calm, but his eyes reflected a mixture of frustration and humility. "I only scored twice… and one of them was a penalty. You got a hat trick."
Yang Yang shrugged gently. "Still, you were incredible."
Messi offered a tight smile but didn't seem interested in continuing the comparison. The result couldn't be changed, no matter how you phrased it.
"Can we exchange jerseys?" he asked, reaching toward Yang Yang's damp shirt.
"Of course," Yang Yang said, immediately taking it off and handing it over.
Messi did the same, and they swapped. He held Yang Yang's soaked jersey with both hands like it was a relic.
"I'll wash it when I get home and hang it on my wall. I want it to remind me of today—of how I lost the World Youth Championship final in the Netherlands to you. But one day, I'll take it back."
Yang Yang was surprised by the sincerity—and the challenge—but he respected it. What he didn't know was that he had already become Messi's number one rival months earlier.
But Yang Yang had always been light-hearted, open-minded. Challenges didn't scare him.
"Okay," he said, holding up Messi's jersey with a grin. "I'll clean this and keep it as a reminder too. Just don't expect me to give you the chance."
The two young stars exchanged a respectful hug. Yang Yang admired Messi's control, the way he kept the ball at his feet like it was tied to him. Messi's dribbling had the artistry of a magician. Yang Yang's own game was more direct—tight, fast-footed, and efficient. They were opposites in many ways, but equal in brilliance.
After Messi left, Yang Yang turned back toward his teammates. He'd need a fresh jersey for the award ceremony.
That's when he saw someone waving to him from the tunnel entrance. Ibrahimović, flanked by Maxwell and a few others, had made their way down from the stands and were calling out to him.
"Yang! You're a world champion now!"
"After this tournament, your value is going to skyrocket!"
Yang Yang jogged over with a smile, only for Ibrahimović to slap his shoulder with a suspiciously knowing grin.
"Forget us for a minute," the Swede said, winking. "Someone's waiting for you in the tunnel. Go—quick!"
"What? Who?" Yang Yang asked, puzzled.
"You'll see," Maxwell chuckled, giving him a push. "Go already."
Still confused, Yang Yang walked down the player tunnel… and then he saw her.
Su Ye stood just ahead, near the exit to the locker rooms. Her fingers were nervously tugging at the hem of her shirt, and her cheeks were visibly flushed. Whether it was from the heat of the stadium lights or something else, he wasn't sure.
The moment she saw him, her eyes softened. Yang Yang smiled and took a step forward, about to ask, "Su, how did you—?"
He never finished the sentence.
In an instant, Su Ye threw herself into his arms.
The embrace came so fast, so suddenly, that Yang Yang froze in place. Even the guys back at the tunnel entrance were stunned.
"Whoa… she just ran right into him!" Ibrahimović exclaimed.
"Is she confessing?" Maxwell murmured.
"She's gorgeous," added Nicholas. "If he rejects her, I swear…"
"We probably shouldn't be watching this," Maxwell said, already tugging Ibrahimović by the sleeve. "Come on, let's give them some privacy."
"Yeah, yeah, that's enough!" Ibrahimović said loudly, pretending to herd the others away. "Nothing to see here! Move along!"
"I just want to see if they kiss," Nicholas muttered, refusing to budge.
"Don't be a creep," Maxwell snapped, dragging him back toward the tunnel. "Let the man have his moment."
...
Su Ye was still clinging to him, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Yang Yang stood frozen, arms hovering in the air, unsure of where to place them.
His heart pounded. He could feel the warmth of her body pressed against his chest, her breath against his shoulder, the faint scent of her hair. Everything about the moment overwhelmed him. His fingers twitched awkwardly, suspended in mid-air, as if they didn't belong to him.
She was trembling slightly.
He'd faced two Argentine defenders one-on-two and scored a hat trick in a World Youth Championship final. But this? This was harder.
This was Su Ye.
"…Are you okay?" he asked, voice low and hesitant.
She didn't answer. She just held on tighter, shaking her head slowly against his shoulder.
Yang Yang's jersey was soaked through with sweat, grime, and grass stains from the final. He managed a nervous laugh and said, "I'm all sweaty and disgusting. I'm going to ruin your shirt…"
Her voice was barely audible. "It doesn't matter."
He blinked. "What?"
He wasn't sure if he'd heard her correctly — the noise from the celebrations outside the tunnel was still loud, echoing faintly into the corridor.
Finally, she loosened her hold just enough to lean back, though she was still so close he could feel her breath. Her eyes looked straight into his, unblinking, a little glassy with emotion.
"I… li… ke… you," she whispered, each word coming out like it took everything she had.
For a moment, Yang Yang just stood there — stunned.
She was breathing quickly now, nervous. He could see it in her trembling lips, the way her fingers clenched into the fabric of her shirt. Her eyes were full of hope and panic at once, as if she had poured her entire soul into those four words and had no idea what to do next.
She was terrified.
What if he didn't feel the same?
What if she just ruined everything?
Yang Yang's mind raced. He'd been confessed to before, back in the Netherlands. A few girls had done it to his face. He had always stayed polite, clear, detached. But this time…
This time, everything was different.
He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
Su Ye, misreading the silence, rushed to explain. Her hand reached for his wrist, lifting it up alongside hers. "Look, the hand ropes," she said quickly. "They're a pair. I made them myself. It took me several days. Yours has my name woven into it, and mine… has your name."
Yang Yang looked at the two thin, handcrafted bands.
He had seen hers before, but never thought about it. Now, seeing the two side by side, realizing what they meant — what she had put into them — he suddenly felt something bloom in his chest.
A warmth that started low and swelled until it threatened to burst from his ribs.
He couldn't say when it had started. Maybe when he first saw her school photo. Maybe when he met her at the Summer Palace. Maybe it had grown, little by little, with every phone call, every message, every quiet moment they shared.
He didn't know the exact moment it happened.
But he was certain of it now.
He liked her.
He liked her very, very much.
Su Ye looked up at him again. "Don't… don't you like me?" Her voice trembled. "Was I wrong?"
She looked like she was about to cry. And Yang Yang couldn't bear that.
He took a step forward and pulled her into a firm embrace.
His arms, no longer uncertain, wrapped around her with purpose — strong, sure, unshaking.
He leaned close to her ear and whispered, "No. You're not wrong. I like you too. I really do."
...
When Yang Yang finally stepped back out of the player tunnel, the first thing he saw was Ibrahimović, Maxwell, and the others standing nearby—grinning from ear to ear and looking at him like they had just watched something they weren't supposed to.
Their expressions immediately made him feel guilty, like a thief caught red-handed.
"Hey, bro," Ibrahimović said, smirking like an old streetwise veteran. "You got it done?"
Yang Yang blinked. "Got what done?"
"Don't play dumb," Maxwell said, slapping him on the shoulder. "We all saw it. So? She confessed?"
Yang Yang stared at them. Was everyone always this straightforward?
"Come on," one of them added. "Look at that windblown look on his face. You're telling me that wasn't a confession?"
"Maybe they even kissed," Nicholas muttered, clearly enjoying himself.
Yang Yang opened his mouth, his expression caught somewhere between a guilty smirk and faint panic. The memory of Su Ye's sudden embrace and soft whisper flashed back in his mind — and yes, maybe that gentle brush of her lips too.
But he quickly pulled his face together and gave a cold snort, trying to appear composed.
The others laughed.
"Pretend all you want," Ibrahimović teased. "The more you act like nothing happened, the more obvious it gets."
"Exactly," Maxwell grinned. "You should be thanking us. If we hadn't lured her down into the tunnel, that moment might never have happened. You'd still be standing around, clueless, and she'd probably be off dating some random Dutch guy by now."
They all burst into laughter again.
Despite Yang Yang's reputation on the pitch — calm, focused, deadly — off the field, he really was all about football. He never had much interest in chasing girls, and the fact that someone like Su Ye was around him, interested in him, made the others want to push him harder.
Ibrahimović and Maxwell exchanged a glance. Their mission was complete.
Though Yang Yang never actually confirmed anything, he didn't deny it either. In the end, he relented and promised to take them out for a celebratory dinner — "to honor the National Youth Team winning the World Youth Championship," he claimed.
"Hey, Yang," Maxwell said as they walked. "My wife really wants to meet Su Ye too. Isn't she staying in the Netherlands for a few days? I'll organize a party at my place tomorrow night. You just bring her along."
Yang Yang gave him a look. "You're really going around the backdoor with this, huh?"
Maxwell shrugged with a grin. "You don't want to admit it? Fine. I'll arrange it in a way that forces you to."
Yang Yang sighed. He knew these guys wouldn't stop until they got what they wanted. They were the same ones who had cornered Ibrahimović into confirming his relationship back in the day. There was no way to outmaneuver them.
"Alright," he agreed, raising both hands. "I'll ask her. No promises, but I'll try."
"That's all we needed to hear!" Maxwell clapped him on the back.
Not far off, a group of National Youth teammates were calling for Yang Yang. It was almost time for the award ceremony.
As he jogged toward them, Ibrahimović, Maxwell, and the others gave Maxwell a series of thumbs-up.
"That guy's tricky," one of them whispered. "Always knows how to get things done."
"I still don't get it," Ibrahimović muttered, shaking his head. "He's a complete blockhead when it comes to girls. How does a girl like that fall for him? What does he have that I don't?"
"Good looks? Killer instincts?" Nicholas joked.
"I am better looking!" Ibrahimović snapped.
"More goals?"
"Better stats?"
"Shut up."
They laughed as Ibrahimović turned toward Maxwell with a glare, just in time to see him pulling out his phone.
"You're not recording this, are you?"
Maxwell grinned and slipped his phone back into his pocket.
"You've got guts," Ibrahimović muttered.
The group broke out laughing again.
"Unbelievable," said Vermaelen, joining in. "Even Yang Yang's not single anymore."
Then he turned to look at Sneijder. "Hey, Wes… you're awfully quiet."
Sneijder froze. He suddenly realized everyone was now staring at him.
"I, uh… actually, I already have a girlfriend," he admitted, rubbing the back of his head. "And… we're planning to get married later this year."
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then absolute chaos.
"WHAT?"
"You're kidding!"
"You serious? Since when?!"
"Since always," Sneijder said sheepishly. "I just… never brought it up."
"Never brought it up? You're getting married and never told anyone?!"
Even Bendtner, who had teased him more than anyone, looked betrayed.
"This guy…" Maxwell said, shaking his head. "You planned on sending invitations without telling us, didn't you?"
Everyone was laughing and shouting again.
Maxwell raised a hand and declared, "No invitation, no forgiveness!"
...
...
As the award ceremony began at Galgenwaard Stadion, Su Ye quietly made her way back to her seat in the stands.
"Little Ye, where did you go?" her father, Su Wenhong, asked, leaning over with concern.
"I didn't go far," Su Ye replied quickly, trying to sound casual. "Just over there, by the entrance."
Her voice was light, but Ye Qingqing, seated beside her, shot her a quick look.
"What happened to your shirt?" Su Wenhong asked next, noticing the slight wrinkles and damp spot near the front.
Su Ye's face flushed instantly. That must have been from when she hugged Yang Yang so tightly.
"Ah... it's nothing," she said hurriedly. "I think it happened when I was washing my hands. Splashed a bit."
"Oh," her father said, nodding without pressing further.
But Ye Qingqing wasn't convinced.
She had caught the moment her daughter glanced back toward the pitch, and she saw the soft, glowing look in Su Ye's eyes. It wasn't just admiration. It was affection — unmistakable, warm, and far too intense to be explained by casual fandom.
Ye Qingqing didn't say anything. She simply smiled to herself.
This girl still thinks she can fool us…
But she had no intention of stopping her. She already understood her daughter's feelings, and more importantly, she could see that Yang Yang felt the same.
As a teacher — and as a mother — Ye Qingqing had seen enough young hearts to know when something was real. Feelings like this couldn't be blocked, controlled, or reasoned away.
And honestly?
She didn't want to.
...
...
As per tradition, the award ceremony at Galgenwaard Stadion began with the individual honors before the presentation of the championship trophy.
The first to be announced was the Golden Boot — awarded to the top scorer of the tournament.
There was no suspense.
Before the final, Yang Yang had already netted seven goals. His stunning hat trick against Argentina brought his total to ten — a tally unmatched by any other player at the tournament.
When FIFA President Sepp Blatter called out his name, the stadium erupted in thunderous applause. Fans from every corner — Chinese, Dutch, even Argentine — stood to clap for him.
The crowd wasn't just celebrating a talented goalscorer.
They were applauding the breakout star of world football.
The Eredivisie Golden Boot winner, the man who broke Ronaldo's scoring record in the Dutch league, had now conquered the global youth stage. As Yang Yang walked up to the podium to receive his award, speculation was already swirling in the media and transfer market: Would he renew with Ajax? Or was he destined for one of Europe's biggest clubs?
The cameras flashed wildly as Yang Yang raised the Golden Boot high above his head.
Blatter took a moment to shake his hand and, with a smile, leaned in to speak privately.
"Keep pushing forward," the FIFA President said warmly. "And I hope to see you at this year's FIFA World Player of the Year ceremony."
Yang Yang looked surprised. "Me?"
Blatter chuckled. "As far as I know, you've been shortlisted."
The words hit like a thunderclap.
The FIFA World Player of the Year shortlist?
Blatter continued. "The list won't be officially released for a few more days, but I've seen the names. You're on it."
Still processing, Yang Yang managed a grateful, if stunned, reply. "Thank you, Mr. Blatter."
As he walked back toward his teammates, his mind was spinning. He hadn't even considered the possibility. According to FIFA's process, a preliminary shortlist of 20 to 30 names would be compiled, then voted on by national team captains and coaches. The top three would be revealed later in the year at the award ceremony in December.
For someone his age to even make that initial list was practically unheard of.
He didn't mention it to anyone. There was no need — once the list was published, they'd find out. For now, he focused on steadying his thoughts.
After all, maybe it wasn't so unbelievable. This season, he had won the Eredivisie and UEFA Cup, broken Ronaldo's record, and now the World Youth Championship with a hat trick in the final. If there were ever a year to be recognized, this was it.
The only question now was: how far could he go? Would he crack the top ten?
The award ceremony continued.
Next up was the Golden Ball — awarded to the tournament's best player. Unlike the Golden Boot, the Golden Ball was voted on by accredited media members covering the tournament, meaning it wasn't necessarily awarded to the highest scorer or a player from the champion team.
In previous editions, the results had sometimes been controversial. The most notable case had been at the last World Youth Championship, where Brazil won the title, Eddie Johnson of the U.S. took the Golden Boot, but the Golden Ball was awarded to Ismail Matar of the United Arab Emirates — a choice that raised eyebrows worldwide.
But this time, there was no debate.
With a staggering lead of over 600 votes, Yang Yang was named the Best Player of the Tournament, ahead of Lionel Messi (Silver Ball) and John Obi Mikel (Bronze Ball).
The stadium exploded again in celebration.
Fans leapt to their feet, chanting his name, waving flags, pounding drums. Yang Yang walked back up the podium, his second time in ten minutes, and took the Golden Ball trophy from Blatter, who smiled even more warmly now.
"You should be proud," the FIFA President said. "In the history of the World Youth Championship, only two players before you have won the championship, the Golden Boot, and the Golden Ball all in one tournament. One was Brazil's Geovani Silva in 1983. The other was Argentina's Javier Saviola in 2001."
Yang Yang nodded, humbled. "Thank you," he said, lifting the trophy high.
The crowd answered with another thunderous cheer.
Then came the final presentation.
Argentina, the runner-up, stepped up to receive their medals first. There was grace in defeat, but disappointment lingered in their eyes. Messi, Aguero, Gago — they had fought until the final minute.
Then it was China's turn.
The Chinese National Youth Team, dressed in red and gold, stepped onto the stage. One by one, they received their medals, their hands trembling with joy.
Finally, Yang Yang and captain Feng Xiaoting stepped forward to jointly lift the trophy.
As the silver base rose into the air, confetti cannons exploded, sending showers of color across the stage. Galgenwaard Stadion thundered once again as the speakers boomed with the melody of the Volunteer March, China's national anthem.
Players stood with hands over hearts. Fans in the stands sang, cried, and embraced one another.
For one shining moment, the world saw what Chinese football could be.
And at the heart of it stood an 18-year-old boy with two trophies in his arms, a nation on his back, and the football world at his feet.
...
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