Football Dynasty-Chapter 7: Just One Share

Just as Richard finalized his bet, a sharp knock on the VIP lounge door interrupted the moment. Fay turned and opened it, revealing two well-dressed journalists, their press badges gleaming under the casino lights.

One was from The Sun, the other from Mirror Sport.

"Mr. Maddox, a pleasure to meet you. I'm Daniel Ford from The Sun, and this is Mark Henshaw from Mirror Sport," Daniel introduced himself, offering a firm handshake.

Richard nodded and shook their hands one by one. "So... are we doing two separate interviews, or are you both asking questions at the same time?"

Mark chuckled. "Good question. We'll cover different angles, but we can do it together to save you time—unless you'd prefer otherwise?"

Daniel stepped forward first. "The Sun would like to focus more on your life outside of football—what happened after your injury, how recovery has been, and what's next for you. Would that be alright?"

Richard thought for a moment. He had nothing to hide. "Yeah, that's fine by me."

He then turned to Mark from Mirror Sport. "And you?"

Mark smiled. "Mirror Sport is more interested in your football journey—your rise through the ranks, your breakthrough into the first team, and of course, the injury that changed everything."

Richard exhaled and nodded. "Alright, let's do it."

Both journalists readied their notepads and recorders, sensing that this would be a rare and valuable insight into the life of Richard Maddox—the once-rising star who had seemingly vanished from football.

The interview will take place after the World Cup final.

The lounge was everything Richard had imagined, a luxury lounge would be—leather armchairs worn in all the right places, thick curtains muffling the noise from the world outside, and a polished wooden bar stocked with top-shelf spirits.

A haze of cigarette smoke lingered in the air, curling lazily under the soft yellow glow of the overhead lights.

'As expected of William Hall. They really know how to treat their patrons,' Richard thought, giving an approving nod.

Around the room, a handful of well-dressed patrons lounged comfortably, sipping expensive whiskey and chatting in hushed tones.

Based on how Daniel Ford from The Sun and Mark Henshaw from Mirror Sport were mingling with them, laughing and exchanging stories, it was clear these weren't just regular bettors—they were probably "high-ranking" people.

Then, Daniel clapped his hands to get everyone's attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce Richard Maddox, former Sheffield Wednesday player. Let's give him a round of applause for his remarkable recovery!"

For a split second, the room fell into a confused silence. But as the word "recovery" sank in, recognition sparked in the patrons' eyes.

Richard Maddox. The name that had disappeared from headlines over a year ago.

Whispers rippled through the room. "That's Maddox?" someone murmured. "I thought he was done for after that injury."

"Shh, lower your voice," another person whispered.

The last year had been a mystery to most—Richard had vanished completely from the public eye after his career-threatening injury. Rumors had swirled, but no one knew the full story.

Now, here he was, standing tall in the William Hall VIP lounge, casually sipping... orange juice?

The moment Richard raised his glass, a ripple of excitement spread through the lounge—especially among the madams.

Their eyes lit up with recognition, some whispering behind manicured hands, still remembering that iconic form he had before his injury. The 1980s marked the rise of women becoming confident in expressing their style.

Socialite women often balanced elegance with bold fashion—think shoulder pads, form-fitting dresses, sequins, and statement accessories, with a growing acceptance of more revealing or daring outfits.

Even if their open-mindedness wasn't as overt as it would become in later decades, they couldn't help but shoot him admiring glances. Some even gave him a subtle once-over, eyeing him from head to toe.

They remembered him on the pitch—Richard tearing off his jersey, sliding across the grass, his perfectly sculpted V-shaped torso on full display. His raw athleticism, chiseled muscles, and defined abs had sparked envy among men and admiration from women.

But now, after more than a year in recovery, the signs of change were subtle yet noticeable. His frame, though still tall and imposing at 6'0", seemed slightly softer around the edges. Still, his striking features hadn't faded—a sharp nose, strong jawline, and thick eyebrows that framed his piercing eyes. It was enough to make heads turn.

The ladies exchanged knowing glances, their imaginations wandering, though not in the way one might expect.

Despite his charm, the rumors about his injury had spread widely—whispers of how severe it had been, and how it had sidelined him for so long. Any thoughts of flirtation quickly gave way to a mix of curiosity and sympathy.

At the center of it all sat an old but sturdy wooden cabinet TV, its curved glass screen flickering with the live broadcast of the 1986 World Cup Final—Argentina versus West Germany.

The image wasn't crystal clear, and the occasional static lines buzzed across the screen, but no one cared. This was as good as it got.

Richard sat comfortably in a deep leather chair, legs crossed, a tumbler of orange juice in hand. He appeared calm, almost too calm, given the million-pound bet riding on the outcome.

Beside him, Fay was anything but calm. The bookmaker paced back and forth, his drink untouched on the side table.

He kept glancing at Richard, who seemed far too relaxed for someone with so much at stake. 'Is this how high-rollers do it?' he wondered.

It seemed the mentality of a footballer compared to a common person when handling adrenaline was indeed different. Every time Maradona touched the ball, he would tense up, then let out a quiet, restrained cheer.

He wanted Argentina to win—not out of love for Maradona or Argentina. No, he had his own reasons. This bet was his golden ticket. The more Richard bet, the higher his achievements—and his commission—would climb.

If Argentina pulled through, Richard would have a hefty payout, and the bets would keep rolling under his name. He couldn't afford to lose this goldmine, not before he'd fully capitalized on it.

"You think Argentina's got this?" Suddenly, out of nowhere, Richard and Fay heard someone speak.

They exchanged quick glances before turning around to see a distinguished-looking man dressed in a sharp three-piece suit, complete with gold cufflinks and a silk pocket square. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back neatly.

Must be a rich man.

"Mr. Swales," Fay muttered under his breath, immediately straightening his posture.

The man offered Fay a brief handshake before turning his full attention to Richard. "You're Richard Maddox, right? Sheffield Wednesday?"

"Ex-player," Richard replied, raising his eyebrows in surprise as he extended his hand.

"Peter Swales. Chairman of Manchester City," the man introduced himself, gripping Richard's hand firmly. "Didn't expect to bump into a Sheffield Wednesday legend here of all places."

"Haha, you jest, Mr. Swales. What kind of legend can't even make it past his twenties?" Richard chuckled bitterly, mocking himself.

Peter Swales studied him for a moment, then asked carefully, "Really? No chance of a comeback?"

Richard shook his head, the weight of that truth evident in his eyes.

The other party sighed, clearly disappointed. He had hoped to scout fresh talent to bolster City's squad, but it seemed this was a dead end.

'Shame,' he murmured inwardly, his voice tinged with regret.

"But Mr. Swales, all the way from Manchester to London just to watch football?" Richard asked skeptically.

Swales chuckled heartily. "Haha, no way! I'm here on business. Got an invitation to this event, so I thought, why not? Kill two birds with one stone, right?"

"Ah, that explains it,"

They continued chatting about trivial things and sharing the occasional joke until their attention fully shifted to the television. The World Cup Final was hitting its peak.

The lounge buzzed with excitement as the match reached its climax. In the 80th minute, the atmosphere shifted dramatically when West Germany's Rudi Völler scored the equalizer.

People erupted in cheers—not out of loyalty to West Germany, but from the sheer thrill of the moment and, for some, as a bit of payback, considering Argentina had already knocked out England.

Football fever had completely taken over the room. The game had become relentless—wave after wave of attacks from both sides, each push for the decisive goal cranking up the tension to its peak.

Swales leaned forward, his eyes glued to the screen. "With this momentum, West Germany looks unstoppable. Argentina's in real trouble now," he declared, taking a sip of his scotch.

"Not so fast," a familiar voice chimed in.

Fay the bookmaker, Swales, and his friend all turned, surprised, to see Richard casually sitting nearby, his eyes still fixed on the screen.

Peter Swales, a hardcore football fan, wasn't annoyed by the interruption. In fact, he seemed delighted. It was the perfect opportunity to show off his football knowledge, especially with the ladies around. Plus, since Richard was an ex-football player, he figured he still had valuable insight into the game.

"Oh, Mr. Richard, tell us then—what do you have in mind?" Swales asked with a grin.

Richard was momentarily taken aback. He hadn't meant to speak out loud. He cursed himself for his carelessness—a bad habit he'd picked up during his long, isolated days as a wandering ghost.

He sighed inwardly before clearing his throat, deciding to roll with it. "Ah, Mr. Swales, I just mean Argentina still has the edge. After all, they've got Maradona."

Swales chuckled, slightly amused. "Momentum is everything in football, don't you think? Once a team starts rolling like this, it's hard to stop."

"But great players thrive under pressure. That's when they shine. Maradona's been pulling the strings all tournament, hasn't he? He just needs one moment," Richard countered.

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Swales raised an eyebrow. "You think so? Football isn't always about flair. It's about who can keep their nerve when it counts."

Richard clicked his tongue. Not always about flair? Don't you see how Maradona has reached perfect chemistry with his teammates? Skills, mentality—Argentina's in complete harmony right now.

Seeing Richard unconvinced, Swales decided to push further. A mischievous glint appeared in his eye. "Well then, how about we make this interesting? Care for a little wager?"

Richard was momentarily thrown off. A wager?

"Mr. Swales, with all due respect, you probably don't know my situation, so there's nothing I could possibly stake."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Don't sell yourself short. You probably just haven't found another path yet—beyond being a footballer."

81st minute—

"Is that so? Then I look forward to your guidance, Mr. Swales," Richard replied politely.

"Haha! That's the spirit! That's it!" Swales laughed, his ego swelling with pride from the praise. He couldn't help but want to solidify his prestige right there and then.

Swales then leaned in. "How about this? If West Germany wins, you'll come to Manchester City as our youth coach and help guide our young players. How does that sound?"

Richard was now truly at a loss, unsure of how to respond.

Swales had been mulling over Richard's reputation. 'Why was Sheffield Wednesday producing local talent like him?'

It had to be their youth system, their coach... or perhaps Richard Maddox really was something special.

Thinking about the large sums of money squandered on bad signings, a wave of frustration hit him. 'If only City had more money,' he thought, 'they could've poached Sheffield Wednesday's staff.'

But for now, he hoped this young man could replicate that success at City—maybe even create another Richard Maddox.

82nd minute—

"Becoming a youth coach?" Richard echoed, uncertain.

"Yes, of course. And naturally, you'd get a monthly salary and all the facilities that come with the role. You understand why I'm offering this, right?" Swales said confidently.

He glanced around at his colleagues, who looked at him in awe, basking in their admiration—especially as the wives cast subtle, approving glances. His pride swelled.

"But Mr. Swales... would that mean I'd have to move to Manchester?"

"Of course," Swales replied firmly.

Richard hesitated. His Islington acquisition plan was just starting to take shape—how could he manage that and coach in Manchester at the same time?

He was about to decline when Peter Swales actually made an unexpected offer.

"How about this—our wager. You're backing Argentina, right?"

"Yes," Richard replied cautiously.

"Then, if West Germany wins, you come to Manchester. But if Argentina wins..." He leaned in, a sly grin spreading across his face, "...I'll give you one of my share. Just one. How does that sound?"

Richard was stunned. Fay was stunned. Everyone was stunned.

83rd minute—

'You've gotta be kidding me, right?' That's what Richard wanted to say, but the words wouldn't leave his mouth. His jaw simply hung open.

"So, how about it? Become a youth coach or walk away with a Manchester City share," Swales pressed.

'Even if it's just one... it's still...'

Without even realizing it, his hand lifted to shake on the deal. Peter' eyes lit up, and he grabbed Richard's hand tightly.

"DEAL!" He declared.

84th minute—

Though Diego Maradona had been heavily marked by Lothar Matthäus, in a moment of brilliance, he found Jorge Burruchaga with a perfect pass.

Burruchaga sprinted forward, slotting the ball past the advancing goalkeeper from the right and into the corner of the net.

[...GOAL!!! Jorge Burruchaga!!!...]

The commentator's voice roared over the cheers.

[...Burruchaga manages to slide the ball past the keeper! Argentina regains the lead—3-2!...]

"..."