At nine o'clock the next morning, Oliver and his father arrived punctually in front of the Hoffenheim club headquarters building. Oliver's Father had changed into a dark grey three-piece suit today, his tie meticulously knotted, and even his usually unruly hair was neatly held in place with gel. Oliver also wore a navy blue casual suit with a light blue shirt, looking both formal and full of youthful vigor.
In the elevator, Oliver's Father gave his son a final instruction, "Remember, you just need to smile and nod later. Leave all negotiations to me. If they ask for your opinion, just say, 'I'll listen to my agent.'"
Oliver nodded, feeling his throat tighten. He had barely slept last night, his mind filled with contract clauses and numbers. Three people were already seated in the meeting room: Sports Director Rosen, Financial Director Maier, and Legal Advisor Schmidt. Rosen was a bald man in his fifties with small, sharp eyes, and his handshake was so firm that Oliver almost winced.
Rosen motioned for them to sit down: "Please, have a seat. Let's get straight to the point."
Schmidt pushed a draft contract across the table. Oliver's Father did not rush to read it, instead taking out an exquisite leather notebook and a Montblanc fountain pen from his briefcase.
Oliver's Father said in fluent English, "Before confirming the contract, I'd like to understand your club's overall plan. Is Oliver being brought in as an immediate asset or a long-term development prospect?"
What a brilliant move to turn the tables; Oliver's Father applied his business negotiation experience with great ease. Rosen and Maier exchanged glances; this opening statement was clearly unexpected. Rosen cautiously replied, "Both. Coach Nagelsmann greatly appreciates your son's versatility and believes he can provide rotation options in multiple positions."
Oliver's Father nodded, then opened the contract. His gaze quickly scanned the key terms: 3-year contract, 8,000 euros weekly salary, 5,000 euros per goal bonus, 3,000 euros per assist bonus.
Oliver's Father gently closed the document and said, "With all due respect, this salary level does not match Oliver's trial performance. As far as I know, your team's substitute forwards last season were all earning above 12,000 euros per week."
Maier cleared his throat: "Mr. Oliver, your son certainly performed well, but he has no professional League experience after all. This salary is already very competitive among Bundesliga players of the same age."
Oliver's Father smiled faintly: "If we only consider age, that's true, but what about immediate combat effectiveness?" He pulled a data report from his folder.
"Yesterday's trial statistics show that Oliver ranked first in three key data points: pass completion rate, shot conversion rate, and successful duels."
Rosen's fingers tapped lightly on the table: "Data is only one aspect; professional football also needs to consider commercial value, market appeal..."
Oliver's Father keenly caught the unspoken meaning.
He leaned slightly forward: "Is Mr. Rosen implying that because Oliver is Asian, his commercial value is discounted? Can I interpret this as racial discrimination?"
It must be said, Oliver's Father is truly skilled at negotiation. Having been in business for so many years, he naturally knows how to gain a negotiating advantage. The air in the Hoffenheim meeting room instantly solidified, and Schmidt, beside him, nervously adjusted his tie.
"No… I absolutely do not mean that," Rosen quickly explained, "It's just from a purely market perspective, the commercial value of Asian players in the Bundesliga is indeed not as high as that of German native or south american players..."
Oliver's Father took a deep breath, his knuckles tapping lightly on the table. Oliver noticed the veins on his father's hand slightly protruding, but his voice remained steady: "In that case, let's discuss this from another angle. Your team has just qualified for the Champions League, and multi-front competition requires a stable rotation squad.
"My son, he is a player who can play three positions, has a reasonable salary, and does not occupy a non-Europe slot. How should his value be calculated?"
Rosen's eyes lit up; Oliver's Father had precisely hit Hoffenheim's pain point: the squad depth pressure brought by the Champions League.
"What you said… is not without reason," Rosen's tone softened, "Then what salary do you think is appropriate?"
"12,000 euros weekly salary, 8,000 for goals, 5,000 for assists, and the contract extended to 4 years," Oliver's Father reeled off the numbers without hesitation.
Maier, beside him, almost choked on his water: "This... this is already close to a starting player's salary!"
Oliver's Father calmly pulled a document from his inner suit pocket: "This is Bournemouth's offer of intent for Oliver, 15,000 pounds weekly salary. We chose Hoffenheim purely because we value Coach Nagelsmann's nurturing ability and the Champions League qualification."
This "offer of intent" was actually fabricated by Oliver's Father last night, but the Bournemouth club letterhead and sports director's signature on it looked real enough.
Oliver suppressed his surprise, lowering his head to pretend to adjust his cuff. Over the next two hours, both sides engaged in a tug-of-war over every clause. Oliver's Father displayed astonishing negotiation skills—when the other party insisted on not increasing the basic salary, he demanded a higher bonus percentage; when they refused to increase the goal bonus, he proposed adding a relegation release clause.
Whenever a deadlock occurred, he would timely bring up "Bournemouth's generous terms."
At the 90-minute mark, Rosen wiped the sweat from his forehead and said, "5 million euros buyout clause, 7,000 euros goal bonus, no higher, we must protect the club's interests."
Oliver's Father pondered for a moment: "Acceptable, but two special clauses must be added: first, automatic one-year contract extension upon meeting first-team appearance targets, and second, a 15% annual salary increase."
Rosen and Maier whispered to each other for a few moments, finally nodding in agreement. As Rosen began to revise the final draft of the contract, Rosen suddenly asked, "Mr. Oliver, are you really not a professional agent? I've seen many players who have family members as agents, but I've never seen anyone as professional as you."
Oliver's Father smiled as he put away his fountain pen: "Just did a little homework in advance, after all..."
He glanced at Oliver, "This is my son's first professional contract in his life."
The main terms of the final version of the contract are as follows:
Contract Term: 3+1 years (automatic renewal upon reaching the specified number of first-team appearances in the contract)
Weekly Salary: 9,000 euros (10% annual increase)
Goal Bonus: 7,000 euros
Assist Bonus: 4,500 euros
Buyout Clause: 5 million euros
Relegation Release Clause: If Hoffenheim is relegated, Oliver can terminate the contract for 5 million euros
As he walked out of the meeting room, Oliver let out a long sigh: "Dad, that Bournemouth offer..."
Oliver's Father winked slyly and said, "Shh… trade secret."
Around the corner of the corridor, Nagelsmann was leaning against a window, smoking. Seeing Oliver pass by, he walked over and patted the young man's shoulder: "Welcome to Hoffenheim, kid. Tomorrow morning at seven-thirty, first-team training. Don't be late. This League season is very important."
...
On the afternoon of the day the contract was signed, Oliver and Oliver's Father found a small local restaurant in Hoffenheim to celebrate. The restaurant had simple decor, wooden tables and chairs, a few old photos of Bundesliga teams hanging on the walls, and an old-fashioned jukebox in the corner. Oliver's Father chuckled as soon as he entered: "This place is good, much better than those Michelin restaurants. At least you don't have to pretend to be profound over a palm-sized plate."
Oliver pulled out a chair and sat down: "Dad, you're a successful man now with a son who's a professional player in one of the top five European Leagues. Can't you have a little style?"
Oliver's Father opened the menu.
"Style? When I was eating noodle with your mom, you weren't even a twinkle in anyone's eye."
He squinted, studying the menu: "Why are these German dish names harder to pronounce than French... Forget it, waitress!"
A waitress with a ponytail walked over, and Oliver's Father immediately spoke German with a English accent, which he had learned on the fly.
"Two signature pork knuckles, and two glasses of... uh..."
He suddenly got stuck and turned to Oliver,
"How do you say 'juice' in German?"
Oliver's Father had crammed this German for the past two days. Oliver covered his face: "Dad, weren't you speaking quite fluently just now?"
Oliver's Father said righteously, "That was German specifically for ordering food; I haven't learned drink vocabulary yet."
Finally, Oliver ordered for both of them in fluent German. After the waitress walked away, Oliver's Father clicked his tongue in amazement: "How did the Paris youth academy teach you? After two years of studying for a master's degree in England, your mum's English still sounded like a Shaanxi dialect."
Oliver smiled and said, "Probably talent. Maybe if I don't make it in football, I can still be a translator."
"Bah, bah, bah," Oliver's Father quickly knocked on the wooden table, "Don't say such unlucky things right after signing the contract. Oh, by the way, seriously, have you seen the school your club arranged for you?"
Oliver nodded: "I've seen it. It's right next to the training base, an international school Hoffenheim opened specifically for young players. I go three times a week, and the courses are adjusted, with all the necessary cultural subjects."
Oliver's Father nodded with satisfaction.
"That's more like it. Even though you're a professional player now, your brain can't be idle. What if..." He paused, a mischievous grin spreading across his face,
"What if you can't make it in Germany, at least you can come to my company and help me with the accounts."
Oliver almost choked on his water: "Dad! Can't you wish me well?"
"Hahahahaha, just kidding," Oliver's Father laughed, waving his hand, "My son is going to play in the Champions League." He cut a piece of the freshly served pork knuckle,
"But seriously, if it really doesn't work out..."
Oliver rolled his eyes; he knew what his father wanted to say.
"You mean there's still the Super League as a fallback, right?"
Oliver's Father gave a thumbs up.
Oliver made an expression of not being able to hold it together: "Then I'd rather go back to England and watch your warehouse."
The father and son ate and chatted. Oliver's Father ate his pork knuckle completely clean, finally wiping his mouth with lingering satisfaction: "This German food is good. The pork is much better than in England. They even use neutered pigs, much better than the pork at home."
Oliver's Father was right; Germany is one of the few countries in Europe that can make pork taste good. Then, he pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to Oliver, "Take this. Use it before your salary comes in."
Oliver didn't take it: "No need. The club advanced the first week's salary. It's enough."
Oliver's Father raised an eyebrow: "Oh, so you're financially independent so quickly? Alright, then when you get rich, remember to buy me a Porsche."
"What's a Porsche? When I earn more, I'll get you a Bugatti first," Oliver said casually.
"Good, good, good boy," Oliver's Father laughed, slapping the table, "Then I'll be waiting to drive it. If you don't buy it for me then, I'll sell you to the Chinese Super League."
Oliver covered his face. His father had always been like this. Perhaps this was why his father could go to England alone and start from scratch; he was always very talkative. To outsiders, the Oliver father and son seemed less like father and son and more like a pair of buddies with a slight age difference. On the way to the airport to see Oliver's Father off, neither father nor son spoke much.
It wasn't until after checking in the luggage that Oliver's Father suddenly turned around and hugged his son tightly: "Play well, don't put too much pressure on yourself. If it doesn't work out, come home. Our warehouse always needs a porter." Oliver's nose felt a little sore, but he still retorted, "Oh, please. Even rats would cry coming out of your warehouse."
Oliver's Father playfully cursed, ruffling his hair: "You rascal. I'm leaving. Remember to call your mom; she's been nagging for days."
Watching his father's back disappear at the security checkpoint, Oliver took a deep breath, turned, and walked towards the airport light rail. His phone vibrated. It was a message from Oliver's Father: [Forgot to say, I put some Laoganma in the dorm fridge for you, and also the Roujiamo and Baijimo your mom made. Remember to change up the flavor if you get tired of German food.]
Oliver smiled, shaking his head, and replied: [Got it, Dad. My mom is the best in the world, and you and my mom are tied for the best in the world.]
...
The Hoffenheim first-team player apartment was more spacious than expected, with a one-bedroom, one-living room layout for single occupancy, and all the furniture was brand new. The living room wall had a signed photo of the entire Hoffenheim team, and the refrigerator was filled with nutritious food prepared by the club, as well as the player's personal food. The training ground glowed golden in the setting sun, and several youth team players were still doing extra training. He took a deep breath and opened his suitcase to organize his clothes. On top were several vacuum-sealed Shaanxi Roujiamo that his mother had secretly slipped in, and underneath lay a family photo.
Oliver smiled, placed the photo on the bedside table, and then took out his training gear, hanging each item neatly. It was already night. Oliver laid on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. All of this was incredible. In just a few short days, his life had undergone a tremendous change, from a discarded player from the Paris youth academy to a first-team signed player for Hoffenheim, from a youth academy minimum wage weekly salary to 9,000 euros weekly salary...
"Keep training!"
Oliver closed his eyes and continued his training in the system.