My Football Legends Chat Group-Chapter 32: Come on Leeds!

The next couple of matches in the Championship went by in similar fashion, with Rotherham United showing the same ugly tactics, yet unable to get a goal on the board. The controlled and aggressive possession of Leeds United kept them pinned back.

However, Rio noticed a shift in the opposing players’ body language. If before they were just going through the motions of hacking ankles with expressionless faces, they now seemed more alert, making eye contact with each other and even being more vocal.

The young opposing winger, Jack Clarke, was the proponent of this as he started to be more aggressive with his dribbling rather than his fouling. It was the 60th minute and Clarke was on the flank, ready for the one-on-one duel against Firpo.

His expression was desperate. This was the first game where he had such little impact, not even able to get a cross in after an hour of play. He prided himself on being the spark for Rotherham, yet he was being shut down by Leeds’ high press.

Clarke had already resolved himself to beat his man, no matter what.

The ball came whistling towards him and he controlled it without hesitation, intending to nutmeg the defender and run into the box. However, he missed the trick completely, almost tripping over his own feet because of the heavy mud on the pitch.

Rio’s eyes opened wide from the other side of the field before a smile formed on his face. That attempt was the first intentional skill move that Rotherham had tried all game, filling him with excitement.

His gaze moved to the Rotherham Manager, Steve Evans, who finally had a change of expression. His usual angry grimace was nowhere to be seen, now replaced by a furious, vein-popping frown. He had not even been upset when Leeds had scored the opening goal, yet only after a single step-over, his face had contorted.

’Hahaha, so that dinosaur can have this kind of expression too?’ Rio felt a sense of pleasure seeing the reaction of the "anti-football" coach. However, he had a feeling as if it was going to be a lot worse.

Unaware of the new dynamic, poor Clarke continued to try and dribble for the next two plays, thinking he could break the deadlock as Rio had done against Millwall. However, he was quickly tackled by Ampadu.

Rio stifled a chuckle and walked past Clarke during a stoppage, placing his hand on the kid’s shoulder, giving him some condolences for the failed skills. He walked back to his position on the wing and got ready for the restart.

The moment he got into place, the Rotherham defenders suddenly stepped up, no longer sitting deep in their own box as they had done all game.

"Hahaha, so you’ve finally decided to play football now?" Rio said, talking to the right-back who had already crouched down and was preparing for the sprint.

"We’ll stop you our own way," the defender grunted, a smirk forming on his mud-splattered face.

However, before the throw-in could be taken, he heard a voice on the touchline demanding for the game to stop. The fourth official looked over before allowing the manager to scream his lungs out.

Manager Evans stormed to the edge of the technical area and went straight for Clarke, getting close to the touchline with a furious expression.

"What the fuck are you doing? I told you to clear it! Put it in the stands!"

He was at least twice the width of the young winger and was looking down at him intimidatingly, causing Rio to feel his anger rising. The poor boy was staring at the mud and clenching his fists tightly. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

This was probably not the first time that the manager had talked to him this way, as even some of the Leeds players looked away uncomfortably.

The Rotherham captain, a veteran named Morrison, walked over to the touchline, his chest puffed out ready to defend his teammate.

"Leave it, Boss. Let the lad play. We need a goal," he said, not even looking at the manager.

"What!?" Manager Evans was incensed. He hadn’t expected to be so brazenly ignored during a match, so much so that he was at a loss for words momentarily.

Clarke finally raised his head and stared into the eyes of the man who had slowly squeezed the joy out of his game with long-ball tactics.

"I won’t play hoof-ball anymore. If we go down, we go down playing properly." His face was filled with resolution, wanting to break free from the shackles imposed on him by the relegation battle.

Manager Evans’ face turned bright purple as the anger reached his head. "P-Preposterous! You little shit! You’re coming off right this instant. I have no need for circus clowns in my team!"

He turned to the bench and shouted out, "Hugill! Eaves! You’re replacing Clarke and Morrison, hurry up and get on the field!"

However, the two substitutes on the bench both turned the other way as if they heard nothing, pretending to tie their laces. A look of confusion crept onto the manager’s face before realization suddenly hit.

"Oh, I see how it is... Peltier! Hall! It’s finally time for you to step up." He called to the two defenders who were warming up. Although he didn’t want to use defenders to chase a game, he needed to salvage some face.

Yet once again he was ignored. The players continued their stretches, looking at the sky, leaving him stranded on the touchline with everyone’s gaze upon him. He had never felt such embarrassment before, nor had he ever been disrespected this much in front of the Elland Road crowd.

"Y-You lot!" The manager’s face turned a deep shade of crimson as he pointed at his own bench, about to take out his frustrations on the rebellion.

"Manager, get back in your box. Resume play or I will send you to the stands." The fourth official walked over and sent out a warning, perfectly interrupting the meltdown that was about to happen.

Manager Evans felt as if he was going to tear out his remaining hair; he had never experienced such a mutiny in his 20 years of managing in the lower leagues. Years of bullying players into "safety first" football had allowed him to keep teams up by scraping draws.

He didn’t need players that tried nutmegs, all he needed was for them to kick the opponent. He was the boss, the dictator, and the sergeant, and these were just his soldiers who should never disobey him.

The redness in his face began to dissipate, yet his face twisted into one of scorn. "You lot have really done it now. I’ll make sure none of you play in the Championship ever again!"

Without waiting for the official, he walked straight back to the dugout, slamming his water bottle on the ground and kicking it into the advertising boards. After his tantrum, he slumped into his seat, crossing his arms and sulking, not even wanting to stand and watch the game.

[Chat Room Active]

Hand_Of_King: Hahaha! The fat man is crying! This is football!

Total_Football_14: It is tragic that it took this long. But watching a manager lose the dressing room on live TV? That is entertainment.

The_Phenomenon_9: Look at the kid, Rio. Look at Clarke. He is free now. He is dangerous.

Rio watched the scene unfold with wide eyes. He felt a vibration in his pocket—the System acknowledging the shift in the atmosphere.

DING

#NEW MISSION: The King of the North

DESCRIPTION: You have witnessed a rebellion born from the desire to play beautiful football. The Championship is watching. Prove that your "Ferrari Engine" is stronger than their newfound spirit.

Task 1: Win the respect of the Rebel (Jack Clarke)

REWARDS:

Skill: Heavy Metal Football (Pressing Boost)

C-grade Charisma Oil

Unlock: "The Yorkshire Derby" Scenario

Rio looked at Jack Clarke. The winger was breathing heavy, but his eyes were burning with a new fire. He wasn’t scared of the manager anymore. He wasn’t scared of the mud.

"Hey," Rio called out, jogging past him as the throw-in was finally taken.

Clarke looked up, startled. "What?"

"Nice step-over earlier," Rio grinned, showing his teeth. "Next time, try not to trip."

Clarke blinked. Then, a slow, dangerous grin spread across his face. "Fuck off, Spaniard. Next time, I’m putting it through your legs."

"Bring it on," Rio laughed.

The game restarted. But it wasn’t the same game. Rotherham wasn’t parking the bus anymore. They were running. They were pressing. They were angry.

The Leeds crowd sensed it too. The roar at Elland Road shifted from frustration to excitement.

"Come on Leeds!"

Rio received the ball on the flank. The mud was thick, clinging to his boots like glue. But the ’Yorkshire Grint’ passive skill was humming in his veins, making his legs feel light.

He looked up. Clarke was tracking back. The winger was sprinting seventy yards to defend.

"Finally," Rio thought, dipping his shoulder. "A real game."

He drove inside. The mud flew. The tackles came flying in—not malicious hacking, but honest, hard challenges.

Rio rode the first tackle. He skipped past the second.

He saw the goal.

But he also saw Clarke, sliding in from the blind spot, desperate to prove his point.

This wasn’t just about three points anymore. It was about who wanted it more.

"Let’s see who breaks first," Rio whispered.