Football Dynasty-Chapter 34: The World vs Richard

"There's no way England will lose, right?" Harry, his brother, asked, his face pale. Even his grip on his teacup trembled.

After all, the team they were facing was riddled with tension and political instability. The Soviet Union was still viewed as a major political and ideological rival to Western countries. The Cold War was ongoing, and the Western media often painted the USSR in a negative light.

English football fans had always stood by their team, no matter what. And with Soviet football largely isolated, many England supporters knew little about players like Oleh Protasov or Rinat Dasayev—whereas names like Gary Lineker and Bryan Robson were household legends.

Everyone felt confident in this judgment. Even though the Soviet Union's last two matches had been impressive, the bias of patriotism and national pride had already seeped into their very bones.

Right now, Richard and his family were gathered in front of the TV at JW Marriott Grosvenor House London.

The room was heavy with tension—not just because of the match, but because of what had happened before they even got here.

After Harry and his father were fired, they had been in complete shock. They weren't troublemakers. They had always done their jobs diligently—never late, never slacking off, always staying longer when needed.

So why?

Why were they suddenly dismissed without warning?

It was senseless. It was unfair.

It was just a cold, impersonal letter informing them that their employment was "terminated effective immediately."

When they had tried to protest, the manager had refused to speak to them. At the end of the day, it was the supervisor who gave them the hint.

"It's not personal. It's just... with everything going on, it's for the best."

And the reason their supervisor kept repeating only made them more confused about what was going on.

And the worst part? There was no legal recourse. No appeal. No justice.

Their jobs were gone. And now, all they could do was sit in this hotel room, waiting.

"You know you're gambling with our family's name, right?" His father's voice was heavy with concern. But what was done was done. There was no stopping it now.

"Mom, Dad, Brother—trust me." Richard's voice was firm. "This time, we're leaving Islington together. We're moving. I promise you—we're going to be rich."

Anna, his mother, opened her mouth as if to argue, but in the end, she let out a weary sigh. She wanted to scold him, to knock some sense into him, but a part of her hesitated—she couldn't ignore Richard's fragile health.

In the end, all she could do was cast a fleeting glance at her husband and eldest son, as if silently blaming them for everything that had happened. But she had her own contingency plan.

She had secretly withdrawn money from Richard's bank account. If things went south, they wouldn't be trapped. They could disappear into the countryside, far away from the madness.

At least, that was what she told herself.

After appeasing his family, Richard stepped out onto the balcony, letting the crisp night air wash over him.

Below, the streets of Mayfair buzzed with life—cars sped past, neon lights reflected off the polished exteriors of luxury boutiques, and people moved in elegant waves, lost in their own affairs. This place was home to aristocrats, powerful businessmen, and foreign investors.

From his balcony, Richard took it all in. The grandeur, the wealth, the endless possibilities.

This was where he belonged. Or at least, where he intended to belong.

From this Euro, he had learned something. No more being looked down on. No more being cast aside. It was about carving out a future where the Maddox name commanded respect, not ridicule.

His grip tightened around the balcony railing.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

BZZZTT—

His brick phone buzzed in his pocket. Richard pulled it out and pressed it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Richard, it's me—Fay."

Oh, it's the bookmaker—his dedicated personal manager.

"Yeah, I know. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, really. Just wanted to let you know the situation here. It's insane."

Richard frowned. "What do you mean?"

As Fay spoke, the picture became clear.

Since people couldn't confront him directly, they were trying to punish him through their wallets.

The bookies had lost their minds.

Even with the bookmaker increasing the odds to their maximum, it didn't matter—they didn't care at all. They were willing to throw money as if tomorrow didn't exist, all for the chance to see England triumph and watch him crash and burn.

New novel 𝓬hapters are published on ƒreewebɳovel.com.

Fools.

Richard leaned against the balcony railing, his mind calculating every possibility.

"Hmm..." He tapped his fingers idly. "What are the odds again?"

"Uh? It's 1:10 now—England is expected to win comfortably,"

Richard shook his head. Madness. Pure madness.

But if people were so eager to set their money on fire, he'd be more than happy to collect the ashes.

He turned, glancing back at the hotel room. His family sat stiffly in front of the TV, their faces tense as they waited for the match to begin.

So be it.

You all wanted a war?

Then I'll give you one.

"Double it," Richard said suddenly.

Fay's voice sharpened. "What?"

"You heard me. Double my bet. Take it from £300,000 to £600,000."

"You're joking, right? You do realize who you're betting against? This isn't some fairytale underdog story—it's England. England, Richard! The Three Lions!"

Richard hummed. "That's a good point."

Fay exhaled in relief. "Good. At least you're still thinking rationally—"

"Make it a million. Can you do that?"

Silence.

Then—

"WHAT?! YOU'RE INSANE!!!"

"Now that I think about it, since when did you care about my well-being? You know the commission you'll get from this million-pound bet, right?"

"You—" Fay began, but he stopped short. Even he couldn't deny it. The commission alone was enough to make anyone think twice.

"It's settled then—"

"But I'm your personal manager," Fay muttered. "I should be advising you against reckless bets like this."

Richard chuckled, but his heart warmed. It was rare for anyone to care about his decisions beyond personal gain. He appreciated the sentiment—really, he did—but his mind was already set.

He still had £900,000 in cash, and with his £300,000 winnings from previous matches, he had £1,200,000 in total. Even if the future changed due to the butterfly effect, he believed his cash in hand would give him enough leverage to turn things around.

And if the Soviet Union won?

Well, the payout would be astronomical.

The tension in the Maddox family reached its peak as the referee blew the whistle, signaling the start of the match.

Richard remained by the balcony for a moment, gripping the railing as he listened to the muffled roar of the stadium through the TV speakers.

His father sat stiffly on the couch, arms crossed, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.

His mother, usually calm, fidgeted with the hem of her blouse. Sometimes, her hands clasped together as if in prayer.

His brother, every now and then, took small, nervous sips of his tea, unable to sit still. He kept pacing back and forth, his anxiety growing with every second.

England, led by star players like Tony Adams, Kenny Sansom, Bryan Robson, Glenn Hoddle, John Barnes, and Gary Lineker, was a team stacked with talent. And with everything on the line in this do-or-die match, everyone knew they would give nothing less than 120%.

Then, disaster struck.

The match had barely begun—just three minutes in—when England suffered an early setback.

First Goal : England 0 - 1 USSR

England had barely found their rhythm when a costly mistake handed the Soviet Union the lead.

Glenn Hoddle, one of England's key playmakers, was caught off guard in midfield, dispossessed far too easily.

Aleksandr Zavarov wasted no time, threading a precise pass to Sergey Aleynikov.

The Soviet midfielder surged forward, cutting through England's defense with a sharp turn before firing a clinical shot past Chris Woods.

The England goalkeeper barely had time to react.

Gasps filled the hotel room. But it wasn't just them—shouts of frustration and disbelief echoed from the neighboring rooms.

Out on the balcony, Richard clenched his fists. Then, with a deep breath, he forced himself to relax. It was still early. 86 minutes remained. No need to celebrate yet.

"It's too soon to panic," he muttered, as if convincing himself.

And sure enough, England was already pushing back.

Second Goal : England 1 - 1 USSR

England needed a response, and they wasted no time mounting the pressure.

Sixteen minutes in, they won a free-kick in a dangerous position. Glenn Hoddle, eager to redeem himself, stepped up. His delivery was inch-perfect—whipped in with pace and precision.

Tony Adams rose highest, his towering frame commanding the penalty area. He met the cross with a bullet header, thundering the ball past the Soviet goalkeeper.

GOAL!

The hotel erupted.

"Come on! That's more like it!"

"Yeah, that's it! Teach them a lesson!"

"Haha! Someone must be miserable right now, huh?"

"Hahahaha, you're right."

Richard smirked. He didn't need to guess who they were mocking.

Both teams pushed forward relentlessly.

The tension on the pitch was mirrored in the Maddox's hotel room. Then, the woodwork came into play.

Trevor Steven came agonizingly close for England, his strike beating the keeper but rattling off the post.

Moments later, Oleh Protasov had a chance at the other end. His curling effort looked destined for the net, only for it to be denied by the crossbar.

"Goddamn it!" Richard's brother groaned, gripping his head.

But then came the turning point.

With England desperately chasing the game, their defense began to stretch thin. The Soviets seized the opportunity.

Ihor Belanov whipped in a dangerous cross into the box, and Mykhailichenko made a perfectly timed run, slipping between England's defenders. His header was unstoppable.

In an instant, the atmosphere on their hotel floor fell completely silent.

Third Goal : England 1 - 2 USSR

But the worst was yet to come.

As England pushed forward recklessly, gaps began to appear at the back. The Soviets took full advantage—Pavel Pasulko pounced on a loose ball inside the box and fired it home from close range.

England was finished.

"F*CK, I'M RICH—"

Richard barely got the words out before Harry, eyes wild with panic, lunged at him. In a split second, he clamped a hand over his mouth, silencing him.

Not here. Not now. If they found out he was here...

The final whistle blew, sealing England's miserable exit from the tournament.

Pasulko's goal made it three, capping off a disastrous campaign for England while sending the USSR into the semi-finals in high spirits.

Full-Time: England 1 - 3 USSR

The JW Marriott hotel was in chaos, turned upside down by the stunned reactions of its guests.

Richard and Harry suddenly grabbed each other in pure euphoria, their faces contorted with barely contained excitement. Their mouths stretched into wide, toothy grins, their fists pumped furiously in the air—but not a single sound came out.

It was the most silent celebration in human history.

"WE REALLY FUC—"

Then—

PLOP.

For a moment, silence filled the room.

Anna Maddox sank to her knees with all the grace of someone who had just survived an emotional rollercoaster. She folded her hands, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit... Amen."

Harry and Richard exchanged looks before also making the sign of the cross. "Amen."

Then Harry, under his breath: "Holy sht, that was close."*

Meanwhile, Bryan Maddox simply watched from his chair, his face unreadable. On the outside, he was calm. But inside? He was a mess.

Kicked out with a pathetic zero points. It was a disaster of biblical proportions. His beloved national team had gone home in disgrace. He slowly rubbed his temples, letting out a deep sigh.

Thankfully, with this win, it could be said his family was safe in the end.

Maybe he should start praying too.