Night had fallen over Zurich, Switzerland.
Inside the elegant five-star hotel where FIFA had arranged accommodations, Yang Yang stood before a full-length mirror with his arms slightly outstretched as the stylist made a few final adjustments to his suit. The quiet rustle of fabric accompanied the concentration in the room, broken only by the occasional murmur of approval from the stylist.
Since accepting FIFA's invitation to attend the World Player of the Year gala, his agent Mino Raiola had taken charge of the entire process with near-manic precision. That included hiring a renowned European stylist, who had flown to Amsterdam weeks earlier to begin working with Yang Yang on the perfect look for the occasion.
At first, Yang Yang had found the entire operation excessive. But then Raiola made a point that was difficult to refute.
"You're not going to walk into the Zurich Opera House in Nike tracksuits, are you?" the agent had scoffed. "You'd be roasted by the entire press corps before you even reached your seat."
Now, looking at his reflection, Yang Yang had to admit the results were impressive.
He wore a custom-tailored black suit from Savile Row, paired with a crisp white shirt and a slender black tie. The style was timeless, but the cut was modern, subtly accentuating his athletic physique. The suit had been fitted and refitted several times, and now it sat flawlessly on his 1.80-meter frame. His black hair had been trimmed short, styled neatly for the evening, adding to his clean, confident appearance.
"You're lucky you've kept up with your fitness," the stylist said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "Most footballers wear a suit like armor. You wear it like it's natural."
The stylist, flown in from Milan, had been one of Raiola's more expensive arrangements. Even the shoes were hand-finished leather Oxfords, crafted specifically for Yang Yang's size.
The man in the mirror didn't just look like a footballer — he looked like a global star.
"I have to admit," Raiola said, leaning back with folded arms, "You look sharp. Handsome, even."
"If I lost weight," the agent added wistfully, "I'd look just as good."
Yang Yang turned with a grin. "Mino, I don't doubt you'd be handsome. But I do doubt your ability to skip dessert for more than a day."
Raiola threw up his hands in mock surrender. "Why is everybody attacking me today?"
Just then, the doorbell rang.
Raiola walked over and opened the door to the unmistakable voice of Zlatan Ibrahimović, who was already speaking before he even stepped into the room.
"I swear, Mino, you're unbelievable! You've been ignoring me all day. You call yourself my agent? What am I, the backup act?"
Behind him came Helena Seger, smiling politely as the Swedish striker stormed in, dressed in a tailored grey suit with a burgundy tie. He looked every bit the star, except...
"That hair, Zlatan…" Yang Yang said, eyebrows raised.
"I told him to cut it," Helena said, exasperated. "He wouldn't budge."
"This hair has been with me for years," Zlatan said proudly. "It's part of my power."
"Well, it's not part of your style," Raiola muttered.
The stylist, who had been fussing over Yang Yang's cufflinks, glanced at Zlatan and winced audibly. "No offense, but that hair belongs in a shampoo commercial."
"Maybe that's exactly what I'm going for," Zlatan said with mock dignity. "A man must diversify."
"Diversify into what? Herbal Essences?" Raiola smirked.
Helena couldn't help but laugh, though she quickly covered her mouth.
Yang Yang just smiled. "Don't worry, Zlatan. At least your tie is nice."
Zlatan pointed at him accusingly. "Don't think I don't see what you're doing. This fat agent of ours threw everything he had into your look tonight. When it was my turn, I got a stylist who thought 'tailored' meant tighter."
Raiola chuckled. "You're just jealous you don't look like a Korean drama lead."
"I don't know what that means, but it sounds offensive," Zlatan replied.
Just then, a polite knock at the door interrupted their banter. A member of the FIFA organizing staff had arrived to escort them downstairs.
"It's time," the staffer said with a practiced smile. "The cars are ready."
Yang Yang adjusted his cuffs and took a final look in the mirror.
This wasn't just a trip to an award ceremony.
It was a moment on the world stage — a signal to the footballing elite that a player from the Netherlands, wearing a Chinese passport and Ajax's badge, had arrived at the very top.
And he looked ready for it.
...
...
From the hotel, Yang Yang was taken by a special FIFA-arranged car to the Zurich Opera House, the venue of that evening's gala.
The ride was smooth and quiet, but as the car neared the destination, the mood changed.
The vehicle rolled to a stop at the head of a long, elegantly lit red carpet. Security lines and velvet ropes framed both sides. Television cameras perched atop scaffolds while reporters huddled behind barricades with microphones and press credentials swinging from their necks. The faint hum of flashbulbs and chattering fans filled the night.
FIFA had arranged it so that each nominee would arrive separately. One car. One player.
Ahead of Yang Yang, Zlatan Ibrahimović had just exited his own vehicle, accompanied by his partner Helena. Immediately, a surge of camera flashes erupted as photographers and fans called out his name. Ibrahimović soaked in the attention like a true showman, striding confidently up the carpet.
Watching this from inside his car, Yang Yang felt a growing sense of nervousness tightening in his chest. He could hear the crowd's excitement even before the door opened. Part of him admired Ibrahimović's star presence, but another part—quieter, deeper—felt uncertain.
What if no one shouted his name when he stepped out?
The Eredivisie wasn't what it used to be. Its profile across Europe had dimmed, and most of the world's spotlight now focused on the so-called 'Big Four' leagues—England, Spain, Italy, and Germany. Players outside those circles were often overlooked. It was no secret that some observers felt Yang Yang didn't belong in the top ten shortlist. That he was a novelty. A name from a league no longer taken seriously.
He couldn't stop the thought from forming: Would I walk out into silence? Would that be worse than not coming at all?
Before leaving the hotel, Raiola and the stylist had given him simple advice. Don't overthink it. Smile, stay relaxed, show confidence. Just be yourself—elegant, composed, radiant.
It aligned with Yang Yang's nature. But now, just moments away from stepping out, even his steady temperament began to fray.
The car door opened.
Yang Yang inhaled deeply. No matter what, I'll walk out with a smile. Even if the crowd is silent, I'll still give them a moment worth capturing.
But just as he stepped onto the red carpet, a piercing scream rang out from across the boulevard.
"Yang Yang!"
It came from a group of fans waving Ajax scarves and wearing his number eleven shirt. That one voice triggered others, and within seconds, cheers rose up across the street. Dozens—perhaps more—were shouting his name in different accents and languages. Reporters raised their microphones, and flashbulbs flared like a storm of light.
He froze for a split second, stunned. The reception wasn't quiet—it was overwhelming.
Yang Yang's heart settled.
He hadn't expected this. Not to this degree. The cheers rivaled—or even surpassed—what Ibrahimović had received just moments earlier.
A staff member, still holding the car door open and slightly bowed, nodded for him to proceed. Yang Yang smiled, thanked him softly, then turned to wave at the fans calling his name. The volume only grew louder. Several journalists pushed forward for a better view. Cameramen zoomed in.
And then he spotted them—four fans holding up Ajax kits bearing his name and number, eager, hopeful, shouting not for a photo, but for something more valuable: a signature.
Without hesitation, Yang Yang made his way over.
"Thank you," he said warmly, reaching for the first jersey.
The fans' eyes lit up. He signed each shirt quickly and neatly, then autographed a few footballs thrust toward him over the barrier. For a brief moment, it didn't feel like an international awards ceremony—it felt like a home game in Amsterdam.
But as more people surged toward the barricades, security moved in quickly. A steward approached and spoke softly into his ear.
"We need to keep the flow moving, please."
Yang Yang nodded, apologized to the fans with an open palm gesture, and began walking the rest of the red carpet with composed grace.
...
"The person who just walked past is the Chinese star currently playing for Ajax—Yang Yang!"
"He's been selected among the top ten finalists for this year's FIFA World Player of the Year, and you can hear how warmly he's been received by both the fans and media on-site."
"Tonight, he's wearing a classic dark suit—elegant, refined. From his demeanor as he stepped out of the car, you can tell he's composed, respectful—a true gentleman in every sense."
"Even after he moved along the red carpet, the crowd continued to chant his name. Quite an entrance for the young man from China."
"That's Yang Yang, only 19 years old, but already one of the brightest stars in European football!"
...
Yang Yang didn't know what the live broadcaster had said as he entered the Zurich Opera House, but he could still hear the fans and media calling his name from behind. Along the red carpet, he politely acknowledged them all, offering warm smiles and subtle waves of gratitude.
The walk itself wasn't long in distance, but it felt heavy. Every step carried the pressure of a rising star in global football. This was Yang Yang's first time attending such a grand occasion, and the unfamiliarity of it all weighed on him more than any match he had ever played.
As he stepped through the ornate entrance into the heart of the Zurich Opera House, he felt a sudden sense of awe—like Grandma Liu entering the Grand View Garden, as the old Chinese idiom goes. It was more than just a metaphor. This was no ordinary night.
If the UEFA ceremony in Monaco back in August had already left him star-struck, then tonight was on another level entirely.
All around him stood living legends. Pelé. Maradona. Beckenbauer. Di Stéfano. Jorge Valdano.
There were also icons from his own childhood—Ronaldo, Zidane, Van Basten. Football royalty. Everywhere he looked, there were global titans of the sport. Some he didn't even recognize immediately, but their very presence radiated historical gravity. Yang Yang stood still at the entrance, looking east and west, eyes wide with silent admiration.
And then a warm voice broke his reverie.
"Feeling overwhelmed?"
Yang Yang turned instinctively. Standing beside him was a man in his sixties, dressed in a sleek dark suit with his salt-and-pepper hair neatly parted. His stature was modest, but his demeanor exuded confidence and warmth. A pair of rimless glasses rested on his nose, and a knowing smile softened his features.
Yang Yang recognized him immediately.
"Mr. Pérez?" he asked, a bit surprised.
Florentino Pérez. The President of Real Madrid.
The architect of the Galácticos. The man who had reshaped the image of Real Madrid and professional football in the new century. Though rumors had been swirling about his potential resignation, his influence in world football remained immense.
"Call me Florentino, Yang," Pérez smiled, extending a hand that held a glass of red wine. "I prefer it when friends call me by name."
Yang Yang regained his composure and responded with a polite smile. "Thank you, Florentino."
To his surprise, Pérez gestured for them to step aside, away from the center of the crowd. It was a common sight at such galas—conversations happening in corners, brief but important.
"I won't lie to you," Yang Yang began with a sheepish grin, "I was thinking about not attending. I'm not used to this kind of atmosphere."
"No, no," Pérez chuckled, shaking his head. "You were right to come. Not just this year—but every year from now on. This night… this walk… it's not just a ceremony. It's a transformation."
Yang Yang looked puzzled for a second, so Florentino continued.
"When you step out of the car, walk the red carpet, and enter this building—you haven't changed. But in the eyes of the world, you have. This is a rite of passage. A signal to fans, media, and clubs that you belong at the highest level."
Yang Yang nodded slowly, beginning to understand.
A player might be just as skilled as another, or just as crucial for his club—but global perception can elevate one and obscure the other. Media visibility, image, branding, recognition… they all mattered. This gala, with over 160 countries broadcasting it live, was how players stepped into that upper echelon.
His red carpet moment would be replayed across television segments, sports websites, and newspapers worldwide. Fans from every corner of the globe would see him and remember him.
Now he saw clearly why teammates envied his invitation. Why some players begged for even a brief red carpet cameo. Why entertainers crashed film festivals just to "walk the carpet."
It was image. It was identity. It was legacy.
Florentino saw Yang Yang processing the moment and smiled approvingly.
"I heard you study business administration at the Rotterdam School of Management?"
Yang Yang nodded. "Yes, though I've barely had time to attend classes."
Florentino gave a knowing nod. "That's fine. You're still learning where it matters most."
Then he leaned in slightly. "Do you know why Real Madrid is more than just a football club?"
Yang Yang tilted his head, listening closely.
"In the past," Florentino began, "footballers just had to play well. Then came sponsorships. Then came television. Now the internet is changing everything again. The game evolves. So must the players and the clubs."
Yang Yang nodded. "And Real Madrid has always evolved with it."
"Exactly," said Pérez. "Real Madrid has always been built not just on talent—but on vision. Bernabéu didn't just sign great players—he built the greatest stadium in the world back then, because he knew gate receipts would fund Di Stéfano, Puskás, Gento. Our history is proof that football and economics are inseparable."
"People say I'm obsessed with signing stars," he added. "They say we only care about branding. But when we signed Zidane, our sponsorship revenue multiplied tenfold. When Beckham arrived, we opened markets in Asia that no one thought possible. Harvard Business School turned it into a case study. Even your Rotterdam professors study us now."
Yang Yang was speechless. He had read some of these stories before, but hearing it firsthand from the man himself made it real.
"In football," Florentino said, "players are cash flow. But unlike money, players are human—emotional, volatile, unique. So our responsibility is greater. We must protect and elevate them. And when a player is truly special—we make him eternal."
Then he paused.
"And that's why I'm speaking to you."
Yang Yang stared, unsure how to respond.
"At Real Madrid, we believe you and Robinho are the two players who can carry us into the next decade. But especially you, Yang. You are our future."
Yang Yang's heart skipped a beat. His legs suddenly felt weightless.
This wasn't just any club chairman speaking casually at a gala. This was the President of Real Madrid, speaking directly, with clarity and intent.
Even Van der Vaart and Escudé had accepted Madrid's call in a heartbeat—and now Pérez was telling Yang Yang, face to face, that he would do everything to bring him to the Santiago Bernabéu.
"You may not need to answer now," Pérez said, sipping his wine. "But next summer, we'll come for you."
He offered a final smile. "Just remember what I told you tonight. Football is not just played on the pitch anymore. The pitch is only part of the battlefield. Think about where you want to make history."