Pushed by William Clark like that, he staggered back two steps and crashed into the wall. The back of his head hit the hard wall with a loud bang, causing quite a few of the young players to scream involuntarily—among them, Miguel Hernandez's son Diego Rivera screamed the loudest and sharpest. He must have thought that William Clark was going to kill his father.

Then Director Miguel Hernandez really turned into a duck—a duck with its throat squeezed, able only to make quacking sounds, unable to speak.

Even William Clark's colleague Gonzalez, standing nearby, was frightened. William Clark's movements were so fast they exceeded his imagination. Before he could react, everything had already happened and was irreversible.

“Shut the hell up, you fat pig!” William Clark shouted angrily, pressing his arm against Miguel Hernandez's neck.

He had endured this bastard for a full thirty-five minutes—ever since the fifth minute of the first half, this damned duck had been behind him, quacking non-stop. Later, he even started hurling all kinds of nasty insults.

William Clark was never known for his good temper, and he had never endured such humiliation for so long. Those who dared to do so had long been knocked down by him at the first opportunity, just like the manager at the advertising company where he used to work.

Previously, he had put the bigger picture first and focused on directing the match. After all, it was his first time coaching a game, and he wanted to prove himself as a qualified head coach, not just a mere enthusiast. For that, he had endured until now. He never expected this damned Spanish duck to completely misinterpret his patience, thinking he was afraid, and now even barged into the locker room to continue insulting him in front of so many kids. If he could still tolerate it at this point, then William Clark wouldn't be a man!

So he struck back without hesitation.

“Do you know where you are? This is the locker room! Who the hell allowed you in here? And you dare to yell and scream in front of me? I am the head coach here—who the hell do you think you are? Let me tell you, the only one allowed to yell in here is me! Now get out! Right now!” William Clark cursed, pointing at the open locker room door.

After issuing the order to leave, William Clark released his arm and turned away.

Miguel Hernandez slid down from the wall, clutching his neck. After coughing a few times, he roared in humiliation and rage, “You're dead, you yellow-skinned monkey! You're dead! Don't think you can keep working at the Chamartín training base…”

Hearing this, Gonzalez showed a look of sympathy. He thought William Clark was definitely going to lose his job…

Miguel Hernandez hadn't even finished his tirade when William Clark, who had his back to him, suddenly turned around—his fist coming around with him.

The next second, everything went black as William Clark's fist landed squarely on his face.

Struck on the cheek, he collapsed to the ground, nosebleed spraying through the air like a ribbon.

This time, no one screamed, because everyone was stunned.

Standing tall, William Clark shook out his hand. “You should lose some weight, you fat pig.”

Then, under everyone's shocked gaze, William Clark dragged the fat pig out of the locker room and kicked the door shut.

After all this, he clapped his hands and smiled at the dumbfounded young players. “Alright, kids, your performance in the first half was excellent. I'm proud of you…”

Chapter 3: You Will Regret This!

Lying outside the door, Miguel Hernandez was shaken awake by his son. He felt a warm sensation at the corner of his mouth, wiped it, and found his hand covered in blood.

Thinking of the humiliation he had just suffered, he flew into a rage.

As a father, a successful upper-class man, he had been humiliated by a lowly yellow-skinned man right in front of his own son!

There was no way he could swallow this insult.

He struggled to get up from the ground—not because William Clark had hit him so hard, but because he was too fat.

He was going to find the chief director. He was determined to make that damned bastard lose his job! Of course, if that bastard was willing to kneel on the ground, lick his toes, and promise to let his son play every single match, then maybe he could consider letting him come back as an ordinary youth team coach…

His son stared blankly at his father, whose face was covered in blood, as he walked away without a word, not even saying goodbye. He couldn't quite process it. It was as if everything was on fast-forward, scenes jumping one after another: in the last scene, his father was being beaten by that terrifying yellow-skinned man in the locker room; in the next, his father was getting up from the ground and just walking away in silence… What was going on? With his not-yet-fully-developed brain, he couldn't understand or keep up.

He looked back at the tightly closed locker room door, finally giving up on the idea of going back in, and instead ran to catch up with his father, leaving the field together.

※※※

Inside the locker room, after William Clark finished praising the young players with a smile, he handed the time over to his colleague Gonzalez.

But it was clear the young players were distracted.

Not only the young players—even his colleague Gonzalez was the same.