Chapter 456: Chapter 456

At the last possible moment, Ronaldinho’s right foot swung — not toward the ball but just past it — and in the same motion, he sliced it sideways toward Okocha. His face, though, stayed locked on the goal, eyes wide with theatrical focus, as if he were still about to fire a rocket into the top corner.

For half a second, everyone in red froze, completely fooled by the acting. Even the cameraman followed Ronaldinho’s gaze instead of the ball.

Okocha, catching the disguised pass perfectly, burst forward with a grin that said everything — Gotcha.

Seeing this, the ever-alert Keane quickly stepped up to close Okocha down. His timing was sharp — textbook defensive instinct.

But then it happened.

As Okocha drew back his leg to shoot, Keane did what every player — every human being — would do in that split second: he turned his body slightly, bracing for the impact, half-expecting the ball to cannon off someone’s leg.

Suddenly, however, Keane’s eyes widened — he couldn’t believe what he’d just seen.

Did Okocha make a mistake?

Once again — a feint!

Okocha’s shooting motion was a fraction too slow... deliberately so. The ball didn’t explode off his boot. Instead, it slid smoothly underneath his leg, rolling between his feet like a magician’s sleight of hand.

Keane froze mid-turn, realizing too late — the ball had already slipped through his legs, straight to Lampard!

To be honest, even Lampard had no idea what was happening at first.

From his position far behind where the free kick was being taken, he suddenly saw the ball rolling toward him out of nowhere.

It hit him like lightning.

No way. You actually pulled that trick here? In a real match? Holy shit!

Just yesterday, everyone had burst out laughing in training when this exact same move made Team B look ridiculous. And now — the very same trick was unfolding in a real Premier League match!

Adrenaline surged through him. He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate — he met the rolling ball first-time with his right foot.

When the Manchester United players finally realized where the ball was heading, chaos erupted on the pitch!

Okocha had deliberately let the ball roll past him — a perfect decoy. To his right, Lampard came charging in at full speed, timing his run to perfection. He was in the ideal spot: open space, clear sight of goal, and the exact same angle from which he’d scored against United the last time they met.

The United defenders scrambled in panic, throwing themselves forward to block him, but it was too late. Lampard’s shot connected cleanly — a thunderous strike that rocketed straight into the top left corner of the net!

The explosion of sound from the stands was deafening.

Schmeichel, his view completely obscured by the sea of bodies in front of him, didn’t even have time to react. By the time he caught sight of the ball, it was already screaming past him — probably traveling at over a hundred kilometers per hour — and slamming into the net with a violent thud!

Maine Road erupted in pure, uncontrollable joy.

"Ronaldinho assists Manchester City to take the lead! What a brilliantly executed free-kick routine! Ronaldinho feints a direct shot, sending Manchester United’s wall leaping — but instead of striking, he slips the ball sideways to Okocha. Okocha shapes up for a shot, drawing Keane in, before letting the ball roll past him completely. Out of nowhere, Lampard bursts into the open space, timing his run to perfection!"

After scoring, Ronaldinho burst into a joyful samba dance at the corner flag, sending the nearby City fans into a frenzy.

On the City bench, O’Neill and his staff embraced, their faces lit with relief and excitement. Across the pitch, Ferguson, gum already clenched between his teeth, rose from his seat, waving his players to the touchline. He pulled Yorke and Giggs close, murmuring instructions — a quick tactical adjustment, no doubt.

Watching this, Richard forced himself to calm down. Just moments ago, he’d been caught up in the euphoria, but now his expression hardened.

He’d learned one thing after years of watching Alex Ferguson’s Manchester United — never underestimate them. Their comebacks weren’t myths. They were real.

Though United’s players showed flashes of frustration, none of them looked defeated. There was still over an hour left to play, and surrender simply wasn’t part of their DNA.

Moments later, the shift was clear. United tightened their shape — more compact, more patient, more precise. They didn’t charge recklessly forward; instead, they channeled their attacks through the left flank, where Giggs and Yorke began to combine dangerously.

With both forwards and midfielders drifting left, Beckham, lacking the pace to beat his man on the right, dropped deeper into a quarterback role. From there, he began to swing his trademark diagonal passes, searching for gaps in City’s defense.

Up front, Yorke positioned himself wide, Scholes lurked just behind him, and Cole roamed laterally inside the box. Giggs, as always, was the engine — darting forward, cutting inside, stretching the defense to its limit.

City’s right flank started to bend under the pressure. From the touchline, Richard frowned, recognizing the danger. This was where top-tier matches were decided — not by brilliance, but by adaptation.

Manchester United had clearly shifted their focus to the left, and that meant City needed to respond — both defensively and when springing into their counterattacks.

Their chance came when Cole, fighting for space inside the box, was muscled off the ball by Materazzi. Without hesitation, City launched their counter.

Lampard, the hero of the earlier set-piece, reacted first — snapping a precise pass down the left toward Ronaldinho.

As Ronaldinho collected the ball, Richard leaned forward, eyes locked on the Brazilian, waiting to see what he’d do. But his excitement faded quickly. Instead of linking up with teammates, Ronaldinho tried to take on United alone.

His footwork was dazzling — he glided past Beckham with effortless flair — but his decision-making betrayed his youth. Neville, reading the play, stepped in perfectly and swept the ball away.

If Ronaldinho had been a touch more experienced, he would’ve seen the bigger picture — United had already crowded him. The smarter move would’ve been a quick switch to the opposite flank, where space was wide open and danger was waiting to unfold.

Richard let out a long sigh as he slumped back into his chair.

Seeing this, Martin Edwards leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice as he struck up a quiet conversation.

"I thought you’d be in a pretty good mood by now," he said with a faint smile — clearly referring to City’s goal.

Because of how close they were sitting, and the way Edwards spoke almost in a whisper, Richard knew the conversation was meant for his ears only.

"Wouldn’t you be happier," Richard replied, "seeing how United are pressing City now?"

Martin Edwards turned his head, brows furrowed. "You’d think so," he muttered. "But if City were willing to sell us a few players at a fair price, then I’d be really happy."

Richard’s mouth twitched in disbelief.

"Do you even realize," he said dryly, "that you’re talking about transfers with your city rival? Forget it. Selling Ole to you was already a mistake. There won’t be another. Not one more player will go to Manchester United."

What annoyed Richard the most was that this wasn’t the first time United had tried. Last year, they’d come knocking with ridiculous offers for both Larsson and Ronaldo, and now — once again — they were back at it. His curt rejection sent a clear message: Manchester United were embarrassing themselves.

"Don’t be like that," Martin Edwards said lightly, ignoring Richard’s tone. He leaned in again, his voice dropping. "How about selling someone in the winter, then? If Ronaldo’s off the table... that kid who took the free kick will do."

Richard turned his head slowly, staring at him as if he were mad. Was he seriously trying to buy Ronaldinho?

"Not likely," Richard replied flatly. "We don’t do business in the winter."

"Manchester United can offer a fair price," Edwards pressed. "Maybe even a little more."

Richard shook his head. "No. It doesn’t matter how much you offer — or how much you can offer. Let’s be honest: our season plan is already in motion. Unless something drastic happens this winter, we’ll handle everything internally. I’m not selling key players, and I’m not making panic signings either."

Hearing Richard’s mention of money — that City could afford to stand firm — made Martin Edwards’ jaw tighten. A flash of irritation crossed his face.

’What a joke, Manchester United don’t have money?!’

They were one of the richest clubs in the world — pulling in over a hundred million pounds in revenue every year. If you counted their rising share value, United’s worth easily topped a billion. Money wasn’t the problem.

The real problem was the pressure. The criticism. The fans.

Last season had been nothing short of hell for Manchester United — and it left deep cracks between him and Alex Ferguson. Their relationship, once steady, had grown strained. Edwards was openly dissatisfied with Ferguson’s results, but then again — Ferguson wasn’t the kind of man to take blame quietly. He wasn’t some rookie manager to be pushed around.

The lack of silverware and a relatively quiet transfer window had turned up the heat. United had stumbled, and with every poor result, the boardroom tension grew thicker.

Meanwhile, Edwards had become a lightning rod for criticism from United supporters. To them, he was the embodiment of stinginess — a chairman more interested in profits than trophies. "Too tight to spend when it matters," the fans would say.

That’s why, when he spent heavily this summer — £10.75 million on Jaap Stam, £4.4 million on Jesper Blomqvist from Parma, and a massive £12.6 million on Dwight Yorke from Aston Villa — Edwards genuinely believed it would change perceptions. He hoped that those signings would not only silence the fans’ doubts but also restore fans faith in the board.

Now, looking at Manchester United’s starting eleven, there was hardly anything to complain about. Sure, Irwin might be getting old, but as long as he had Giggs charging ahead, all he needed to do was focus on defending.

However, relying on just eleven players wasn’t enough to compete for the league title — not against the likes of Manchester City, the new Arsenal, or a Liverpool side in the midst of regeneration.

"Let’s stop talking about transfers," Richard suddenly cut in, his tone turning serious. He leaned slightly closer to Martin Edwards, eyes narrowing.

"Tell me something, Martin — are you really serious about selling Manchester United? If that’s the case, then why are you pushing so hard to buy City players? Why not just let the new owner handle it instead?"

"Because from where I’m sitting, it doesn’t make sense. You’re negotiating transfers like you’ll still be in charge for years, but the papers say otherwise. So, which is it? You selling the club, or still pretending you’re not?"

Recently, Manchester United had become the talk of the entire country. News of a potential sale dominated every headline, from Fleet Street to the pubs of Manchester.

Martin Edwards, the club’s chairman, was reportedly in advanced talks to sell United to media magnate Rupert Murdoch. The deal, valued at hundreds of millions, was said to be nearing completion — but the closer it got, the louder the backlash grew. Fans were furious. Supporters’ groups accused Edwards of selling the soul of the club to corporate interests. Protests erupted outside Old Trafford, and banners reading "UNITED IS NOT FOR SALE" became a common sight.

For Ferguson, the chaos was exhausting. He was trying to keep his players focused amid the noise, but even he couldn’t hide his frustration. It wasn’t just the uncertainty about the ownership — it was the hypocrisy.

People, including Richard, couldn’t understand Edwards’s actions.

’If he’s so determined to sell the club, why is he still meddling in transfers?’

Why the rush to negotiate new signings when the ownership might change within months? Was he trying to raise the club’s value before handing it off? Or was he simply clinging to control until the very end?

The question lingered everywhere: Was Manchester United really being sold, or not?

The instability seeped into the dressing room. Rumors spread among players, agents hovered around Carrington, and every newspaper seemed to publish a new "exclusive" each morning. Still, Ferguson stayed outwardly calm.

Privately, he didn’t mind the idea of new ownership — as long as he remained in charge. What mattered most to him was investment. If Murdoch’s billions could bring in fresh talent and ease the endless budget fights with the board, then perhaps it was worth it. After all, Murdoch was no penny-pinching butcher like Edwards.

All Ferguson wanted was a club that could compete freely, without every transfer turning into a battle over a few million pounds.

"Of course, it’s all part of the preparation," Martin Edwards said with a grin, his tone light but his words deliberately vague. "Sorry I can’t disclose more to you — company policy."

His smugness made Richard want to throw him out of here. ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by n0velfire.net

Richard leaned back slightly. Then, after a pause, he asked quietly, "Do you really think this deal will go through?"

That question seemed to catch Edwards off guard. For a brief second, the chairman’s grin faltered. He suddenly remembered — this was Richard. Maddox Capital, had indirect ties to Murdoch. After all, Sky Sports was under Murdoch’s media empire — and Maddox had investment in there.

"Do you have any insider information?" Edwards asked, lowering his voice as he leaned forward.

Richard blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. "Information? From Murdoch?" He shook his head and gave a dry chuckle. "Hardly. We don’t have that kind of access anymore. Not since the fallout after their ’infamous coverage’ of us. These days, we only deal through intermediaries. Meetings are handled by representatives — never directly. So, no. I wouldn’t know anything concrete."

Edwards studied him for a moment, searching for a hint of deception, but Richard’s tone was steady.

"I see," Edwards murmured, though his skepticism lingered.

Richard hesitated for a second before adding, "But..." He stopped, choosing his words carefully. "You might want to brace yourself."

Edwards frowned. "Why?"

’ because I doubt the deal will go through.’

He didn’t elaborate — not about the government pressure, nor the furious fan protests that were now spilling into Parliament’s discussions. He didn’t mention the whispers he’d heard — that regulators were uneasy about Murdoch gaining control over both media and football broadcasting.

Richard simply offered a faint, knowing smile and turned his gaze back toward the pitch.

"Just don’t get your hopes up," he said, his tone calm but firm. Then, without another word, he focused once again on the match unfolding before them — the roar of the crowd washing away the tension between the two men.