Football Dynasty-Chapter 555: Learning and Playing

After defeating Tottenham Hotspur, Aston Villa successfully drew level on points with Manchester United and climbed into second place in the league.

With just nine rounds remaining, the title race—and the battle for the top four—had entered a decisive phase. Every match now carried enormous weight. Every dropped point could reshape the table overnight.

For Aston Villa, this was uncharted territory.

They were not just chasing silverware or pride anymore—they were on the brink of history, pushing to become one of the few clubs outside the traditional elite to qualify for the UEFA Champions League or... the Premiere League!

The pressure was immense, but so was the belief growing inside Villa Park.

For Manchester City, however, the mission was clear: leapfrog Arsenal and Chelsea first. How unlucky for both of them to have City lurking just behind, close enough to strike at any mistake.

In the next match, Manchester City were set to face Charlton Athletic—a fixture widely considered an easy one. Most pundits agreed it should be a straightforward victory. And if you asked Richard, he would say the same.

City maintained the core framework from the previous match against Manchester United.

Zambrotta, Cannavaro, Thuram, and Ashley Cole were considered irreplaceable—for now. Thankfully, Zambrotta was a highly versatile full-back, capable of covering multiple roles when needed, which eased concerns over balance on the flanks.

The most significant change in City’s setup came from the return of Ronaldo, whose presence immediately added explosive attacking power. Combined with the inclusion of a more assist-oriented Zidane in the attacking midfield role, City’s offensive threat increased sharply—especially with Pirlo operating just behind them.

For the young Pirlo, it was fair to say that the derby victory over Manchester United had massively boosted his confidence. The performance allowed him to settle into his role as the team’s deep-lying orchestrator, dictating tempo with calm authority and precision.

"Zizou—him! Run at them, pull them in!" Mourinho shouted toward Zidane, who nodded in response.

Zidane’s role was clear: draw defenders forward and disrupt their shape, while Pirlo calmly dictated the tempo from behind. City’s attack flowed smoothly, relentlessly testing Charlton Athletic’s defensive nerves time and again.

Sure enough, the pressure soon mounted.

Attacks surged toward Charlton’s goal like a relentless tide, and even when an offensive move broke down, Charlton’s counterattacks rarely lasted long before losing possession. City’s defensive unity and tactical discipline were outstanding; their forwards didn’t track back merely for appearance’s sake, but actively worked to disrupt Charlton’s attacking structure.

Once possession was regained, the transition to attack was immediate—sharp, aggressive, and purposeful—driving City forward once more.

City’s offensive structure was clear and well-defined, with excellent spacing between the lines. This allowed them to maintain constant pressure from the front while firmly controlling second-ball situations.

After a quick one-two with Zambrotta, Zidane burst down the byline and delivered a precise cross toward Pires. His header crashed against the crossbar, the ball bouncing back down into the penalty area.

Before the crowd’s collective sigh could even fade, Ronaldo—having slipped free from his marker—leapt to meet the rebound. The Charlton goalkeeper, still sprawled on the ground, had no chance to recover.

GOAL!

"The Brazilian has scored! Ronaldo—R9—finds the net! That’s his second goal of the season already. He got on the scoresheet in the last match as well, What a striker he is."

When Ronaldo was injured, Marina Granovskaia—honestly—spent the entire summer searching for a world-class striker. Manchester City had options. Many clubs and agents made inquiries, offering names and deals that would have satisfied most directors.

But City did not move.

Richard rejected every proposal that came across his desk. No panic buys. No short-term fixes. He refused to be dragged into the market simply to quiet doubts or headlines.

He waited.

PHWEEEE~

Manchester City 1 – 0 Charlton Athletic

After scoring, Ronaldo embraced Zidane and then Pires. It had nothing to do with confidence in his ability, but rather with his struggle to fully express himself after injury and suspension. Even after finding the net, he avoided an exuberant celebration, as if afraid that one poor performance in the next match might invite criticism.

Mourinho stood on the touchline, smiling and applauding. His decision to believe in Ronaldo was simple: he wanted him to finish chances, not create them. On the right, Pires or Okocha provided service and creativity; on the left, Ronaldinho and Henry offered a more complete threat—capable of both scoring and assisting.

With Zambrotta and Ashley Cole overlapping to support the attack, City’s structure was balanced, controlled, and dangerous.

Charlton Athletic struggled to mount any meaningful offense, largely because they could not retain possession. It wasn’t simply that Manchester City were playing keep-away; their pressing was exceptional. For a team lacking precision—both in ground passes and aerial balls—breaking through City’s defensive wall was a near-impossible task.

People soon began to notice that the situation mirrored last season, when City almost never conceded goals.

Forty minutes in, Ronaldo and Ronaldinho combined with a classic one-two on the left edge of the penalty area. Ronaldinho flicked the ball into Ronaldo’s path, and the striker burst forward before unleashing a powerful shot that the goalkeeper could barely react to.

The ball struck the keeper square in the chest and bounced straight back into play, where Zidane arrived unmarked and calmly slotted it into the empty net.

BANG!

PHWEEEE~

Manchester City 2 – 0 Charlton Athletic

However, this time Ronaldo didn’t celebrate.

He had already turned away when his eyes drifted back toward the Charlton goal—and something felt wrong. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

The goalkeeper wasn’t moving.

Ronaldo froze.

"Medics! Medics!" while he froze, Zidane already shouted suddenly, waving his arms.

Boom.

The stadium fell into instant chaos. Players stopped. The referee sprinted over. Charlton defenders turned in panic as their goalkeeper, Saša Ilić, lay motionless on the turf, his arms limp, his chest barely rising.

He wasn’t getting up.

"Fuck..." someone muttered nearby.

Ronaldo stood rooted to the spot. Growing up in the favelas of Brazil, he had seen injuries, violence, desperation—but this was different. On a football pitch, under bright lights, with thousands watching... he didn’t know what to do.

Zidane did.

The moment he reached the six-yard box, his expression changed. Years of experience—in Cannes and Bordeaux kicked in immediately.

He looked toward the medics who were still sprinting from the touchline, their pace suddenly feeling painfully slow.

"Fuck... why are they moving so slowly?" he muttered under his breath.

Zidane didn’t wait. "He’s out," he said sharply, kneeling beside Ilić. "He’s unconscious."

The goalkeeper’s jaw was slack. His breathing was uneven.

Zidane didn’t hesitate.

"Turn him—now."

He carefully rolled Ilić onto his side, supporting his neck. Then, with practiced urgency, he reached in and pulled the goalkeeper’s tongue forward, ensuring it wouldn’t block his airway.

"Don’t move him!" Zidane barked as another player panicked and stepped closer. "Give him space."

The referee blew his whistle repeatedly, shouting for calm. Charlton’s medical team sprinted onto the pitch, followed by City’s doctors.

Richard, watching the match, frowned. On a football pitch in this era, there were no advanced pitch-side protocols like today—no AEDs at every corner, no mandatory concussion substitutions. What mattered most in those first critical seconds was basic life-saving instinct, and Zidane’s actions were exactly what experienced players were taught back then.

Zidane adjusted Ilić’s position by a few centimeters, careful not to twist the neck, keeping him on his side. He kept his fingers near the jaw, ready in case the tongue slipped back again. This wasn’t about brilliance or reputation. It was about buying time—seconds, breaths, life.

Finally, boots pounded across the grass.

"Oxygen!" someone shouted.

The medical team slid in beside him, hands already working. An oxygen mask went on. A pulse was checked. A nod followed.

"You did right," one of them said quickly.

Only then did Zidane lean back, his legs stiff, his hands trembling slightly as the tension released. He rose slowly, stepped away, and let the professionals take over.

He had done his job.

"Oxygen!" someone yelled lebih slowly.

The medics had finally arrived.

The medical team slid in beside him, hands already working. An oxygen mask was fitted over the goalkeeper’s face. A pulse was checked. A brief nod followed.

"You did the right thing," one of them said quickly.

Only then did Zidane lean back, his legs stiff, his hands trembling slightly as the tension drained away. He rose slowly, stepped aside, and let the professionals take over.

The game continued at a noticeably more cautious pace. The roar of the crowd never fully returned, as players, referees, and even the supporters seemed to carry the lingering tension from the earlier incident. Focus remained, but every touch of the ball felt more restrained.

Manchester City maintained control, choosing composure and structure over urgency. Charlton Athletic struggled to regain their rhythm, their attacks breaking down long before they could trouble City’s defense.

Richard picked up the table, checking the current standings:

Manchester United — 63 points

Aston Villa — 61 points

Arsenal — 61 points

Chelsea — 60 points

Manchester City — 59 points

Liverpool 57 — points

"Good. One more," Richard murmured to himself.

After the 2–0 victory over Charlton Athletic—sealed by goals from Ronaldo and Zidane—Richard wasted no time.

The problem for his magician!

Almost immediately after the final whistle, arrangements were made. A private jet was prepared. There was no celebration, no lingering in the dressing room. His mind was already elsewhere.

Spain was calling.

A few hours later, high above the clouds, Richard sat alone in the quiet cabin of the jet. The low hum of the engines was steady, almost calming. He unfolded the fixture list in his hands, scanning it carefully.

Charlton—done.

His eyes moved to the next line.

Aston Villa.

He paused.

"Rank two..." he muttered.

Aston Villa were no longer a surprise package. Richard leaned back in his seat. The timing was brutal.

Soon, the clouds beneath the plane began to thin and drift apart, revealing patches of land below. Richard glanced out the window and knew immediately—he was almost there.

Maspalomas was a coastal town located on the southern tip of Gran Canaria, one of Spain’s Canary Islands. Known primarily as a resort destination, it lay beside the Atlantic Ocean, where constant sunlight, warm temperatures, and steady ocean winds shaped daily life.

There was no airport in Maspalomas.

In 1998, all air traffic to the island flowed through a single gateway: Gran Canaria Airport, also known as Las Palmas Airport, on the eastern coast of the island.

It was Monday morning when Richard’s private jet touched down on the runway.

The aircraft did not linger. After clearing formalities, Richard chose not to rest or delay. Instead, he immediately continued the journey by road. Maspalomas was still nearly thirty kilometers away, and time was something he was unwilling to waste.

The car moved south along the highway, leaving behind the airport’s concrete sprawl and climbing briefly through dry hills before descending toward the coast. The landscape changed as they traveled—tourist resorts gave way to quieter neighborhoods, training pitches hidden behind palm trees, and sun-bleached buildings that spoke of a slower, harsher rhythm of life.

By late morning, Richard’s destination came into view.

Ciudad Deportiva de Maspalomas.

It was not a grand stadium. Not a famous academy. Just a modest football ground, with a capacity of roughly one thousand seats.

After arriving at the stadium, Richard was immediately greeted by one of the scouts Marina had personally recruited when Richard appointed her as Director of Football.

"Here!" the scout called out the moment he spotted Marina.

When he noticed who was walking just behind her, his eyes widened.

The man was unmistakable.

Richard Maddox.

The scout straightened instantly, his posture snapping into something close to military discipline.

Marina stepped forward smoothly.

"Richard," she said, gesturing toward him, "this is Gary—the scout I told you about. I recruited him personally."

Gary swallowed, then stepped forward quickly.

"Sir!" he said, lowering his head slightly as he extended his hand for a handshake.

Richard didn’t mind the formality. He reached out and shook Gary’s hand firmly.

"Relax," Richard said calmly. "Just tell me the situation. Start from the beginning—and give me the details."

"Yes, of course," Gary replied at once.

"So," Gary began carefully, "the boy you’re looking for arrived here three years ago, when he was nine."

Richard listened without interrupting.

"He only came to Gran Canaria because of an inter-school football tournament," Gary continued. "At the time, it wasn’t a club trial—just a school competition. But the moment he played, people from UD San Fernando noticed him immediately."

Marina nodded. She had heard this part before.

"He was different," Gary said. "Small, yes—but the way he touched the ball, how he saw space, how calm he was... it stood out. San Fernando approached his family soon after and asked if he could join the club."

Richard folded his arms.

"And you spoke to them about us," he said.

"Yes," Gary replied. "I explained that moving to Manchester City would be better for David’s development. Better facilities. A clearer long-term program. A pathway that could shape his talent exactly the way you described."

Richard nodded once.

"And then?" he asked.

Gary sighed.

"But when I spoke to the family in more detail—especially his father—things became complicated."

"How so?"

"When I suggested that David would be best developed as a winger or an attacking midfielder," Gary said slowly, "his father rejected the idea immediately."

Richard’s brow furrowed.

"Rejected it?"

"Yes," Gary said. "He said that if David played as a winger, the competition would be too fierce. Too many talented players. Too many professionals already fighting for those positions."

Richard blinked.

"Wait. Wait," he said, raising a hand. "You’re telling me his father thinks it’s better for his son to be a goalkeeper—"

"Yes."

"—because he’s afraid David won’t get playing time as a winger?" Richard finished, his voice rising despite himself.

Gary nodded grimly.

"He believes that as a goalkeeper, David has a clearer path to minutes. Fewer competitors. More chances to play."

Richard stared at him, stunned.

"So... he thinks his son will get more opportunities by becoming a goalkeeper?" Richard said slowly, as if testing the words out loud.

"Yes," Gary confirmed. "That’s exactly what he believes."

There was a long silence.

Richard let out a short, incredulous laugh.

What the hell? Afraid he won’t get playing time?

"Where is his father, then?" Richard asked. "Let me talk to him."

Gary sighed again, longer this time.

"That’s... also difficult," he said.

Richard frowned, clearly confused by the hesitation.

Seeing his expression, Marina stepped in to clarify.

"His father works as a police officer in Valencia," she explained. "If you want to speak to him in person, you’ll have to wait until he comes back home."

Richard’s voice sharpened slightly.

"Then why suggest I come here in the first place?" he asked. "Didn’t you know I’d rather be watching the final fixtures than waiting around for someone who isn’t even on the island?"

Gary shifted uncomfortably. Marina remained calm.

"We knew," she said. "But timing matters."

"Explain."

"The father returns in three days," Marina continued. "He always comes back at the same time—end of the school term. He won’t take calls about his son’s future over the phone. We tried."

Richard exhaled slowly through his nose.

"So you brought me here to wait."

"No," Marina corrected. "We brought you here to prepare."

She paused, then let out a quiet cough before continuing.

"I’ve already arranged the best accommodation available here," she said. "You can wait comfortably and watch the matches on television if you want. And earlier you said you were confused about why he’s playing as a goalkeeper, right?"

Richard nodded slightly.

"Then why don’t you watch him yourself?" Marina added. "Properly."

She hesitated for half a second before finishing her thought.

"As for me..." she said, then continued, "before his father returns, I think it would be wise to speak with his mother first."

Richard raised an eyebrow.

"The mother?"

Marina nodded calmly. "In situations like this, decisions are rarely made by just one parent. Especially when the father is absent."

There was a saying people liked to throw around—that if you wanted to win someone over, you should start with the woman of the house before the man. Marina wasn’t familiar with the phrase, nor did Richard know that her thinking followed the same logic almost instinctively.

"Fine, then..." he muttered.

’A strange place to find a future star,’ he thought.