I Just Wanted to Play Soccer, But I Became a Hollywood Heartthrob

Carter watched as Old Lais smirked knowingly, his expression one of amusement. "I knew it," Lais said. "You sneaky old fox, Carter. You've been leading me around in circles—sending me 'gifts,' getting me to watch the match, telling me I struck gold. And now, finally, you're saying what you really wanted to say from the start: that kid doesn't have a work permit."

Carter cleared his throat loudly, his face slightly flushed. "This rum—cough—this rum must be expired. Bartender! What the hell are you serving here?"

The bartender calmly put down the rag he was using to wipe the counter, reached under the bar, and slammed a fish-gutting knife onto the table.

Carter immediately gave a thumbs-up. "Bartender, this rum is excellent! Now, Lais, what were we talking about again?"

"Work permits," Lais replied with a grin.

"Ah, right. Damn work permits." Carter sighed.

Work permits weren't just an issue in football. Any foreigner wanting to work in the UK needed one. For British or EU players, it wasn't a problem, but for Gu Ran, it was a major hurdle.

In amateur leagues and youth teams, he could play as much as he wanted. But if he wanted to go professional, he would need a work permit first. That was the roadblock that had kept most Chinese players from making it in the UK.

Even if Gu Ran led his team to the national high school championship final, without a work permit, the most he could do was play in non-official youth leagues or return to Asia to play professionally.

Before 2000, getting a football work permit was much easier. Players only needed to pass a simple ability test—things like endurance running, sprinting, dribbling, passing, and shooting. If they met the minimum requirements, they could get a permit.

But in late 1999, something happened that changed everything.

On December 26, 1999, during a match between Chelsea and Southampton, Chelsea's manager, Gianluca Vialli, fielded a starting lineup with zero British players—every single one was a foreigner.

Chelsea demolished Southampton that day. Furious, Southampton's club officials lodged a formal complaint with the FA, arguing that if this trend continued, British players would lose opportunities. The FA agreed and immediately tightened the work permit regulations.

The new rules had two main conditions:

The player's national team must have ranked in FIFA's top 75 in the past two years. The player must have played in at least 75% of their national team's A-level matches over the past two years.

At first, this wasn't a problem for Chinese players. In 1998, China's FIFA ranking was 37. In 2002, when they qualified for the World Cup, they were ranked 50. Even in 2005, they were still at 54.

Because of that, players like Li Tie, Fan Zhiyi, Dong Fangzhuo, Zheng Zhi, and Sun Jihai had no trouble getting work permits. Sun Jihai even made it into the English Premier League Hall of Fame.

But as China's ranking dropped below 75 (by 2010, it was at 87), Chinese players all but disappeared from British football.

For any Chinese player over 18, if their national team was ranked too low and they hadn't played enough international matches, getting a work permit was impossible. The FA's rules made it an ironclad requirement—without meeting both conditions, there was no chance.

Lais sipped his milk leisurely. "There is a simple way for that kid to bypass the work permit issue."

Carter's eyes sharpened. "Oh? What way?"

Lais smirked. "He hasn't played for China's national team yet, has he?"

Carter shook his head. "No. In fact, he only recently started playing football seriously. No one in China even knows he exists."

"Then he can renounce his Chinese nationality and apply for British citizenship."

Carter rolled his eyes. "That's not as easy as you make it sound. He's still on a student visa. Before he can even apply for British citizenship, he needs a five-year residency first. Five years, Lais! A young prodigy like him doesn't have five years to waste!"

Lais chuckled. "Too long for you? Then there's another option—he's still under 18, right? If he signs with a professional club now and plays in their youth team for three consecutive years, by the time he's 21, he'll be classified as a homegrown player and won't need a work permit at all."

Carter slammed his glass down. "If that were acceptable, I could have just found him a random scout or agent! I wouldn't have come to you! Three years? Three months? Three weeks?! Hell, even three days is too long to waste! With his talent, he should not be stuck in some youth team for three damn years!"

Carter was almost shouting. His passion filled the entire bar.

"Lais Reed!" Carter glared at him. "You are Southampton FC's Director of Football! You are one of the six FA committee members! You were the one who pushed for these stricter work permit rules in the first place!"

Lais's lips twitched awkwardly. He cleared his throat. "I've already retired from the club… and even if I wanted to help that kid, I can't just convince the FA to repeal the work permit rules."

"No, but you can help—" Carter's voice dropped. He signaled for another black spiced rum.

When it arrived, he locked eyes with Lais. "You remember the Exceptional Talent Clause, don't you?"

Lais's pupils shrank. "You mean… the Hairdryer Clause?"

"Exactly!" Carter slammed back his drink.

The Exceptional Talent Clause was a loophole in the work permit regulations.

It allowed a club to petition the FA for an exception. If the player was deemed an extraordinary talent, the FA could grant a special hearing. If a majority of the six committee members approved, the player would be granted a work permit immediately.

Each club was only allowed one Exceptional Talent application per year.

But it was notoriously difficult to activate. The six FA committee members had their own agendas, making it nearly impossible to get a majority vote.

Why was it called the Hairdryer Clause?

Because back in 1999, when the FA tightened work permit rules, Sir Alex Ferguson (known as the Hairdryer) was furious. He argued that the new rules would cripple English clubs' ability to recruit young foreign talents. He fought the decision alongside David Gill (one of the FA's top executives).

Eventually, the rules were passed—but only with the addition of the Exceptional Talent Clause. Since Ferguson's nickname was the Hairdryer, the clause was unofficially named after him.

Lais let out a long sigh. "So this was your real plan. You want Southampton to use their one Exception Talent slot… on that kid?"

"You know it's difficult, Carter. I'd have to convince the Southampton board, get them to approve the petition, then grovel to David Gill—someone I can't stand. I just want to relax and go fishing."

Carter let him finish, then calmly asked, "Lais, can you really let that kid go to waste? Can you really accept him being buried in a youth team for three years?"

Lais hesitated. "…Does he truly deserve all this?"

Carter nodded without hesitation. "He's a once-in-a-lifetime talent! I've never begged you for anything, Lais. But this time—I'm begging you. Please… convince Southampton's board. Activate the clause."

Lais took a deep breath. "And does he know how much you're doing for him?"

Carter, now slightly drunk, chuckled. "He doesn't need to know. He reminds me of my younger self. If only I had someone guiding me back then… I won't let another talent go to waste."

Lais fell silent.

Carter smiled. "So? You gonna help me?"

Lais took a sip of his drink. "…If you make the semifinals and he averages over 8.0 rating per match, I'll consider it. But if he can't even do that—don't bother asking me again."

Carter grinned. "Lais Reed—I'll drink to that!"

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