Football Dynasty-Chapter 294: Parting Ways

Due to the scandal, Richard couldn’t attend the upcoming Manchester City fixture.

On a call with his brother, he sighed, clearly frustrated.

"Harry, do me a favor."

He could only helplessly ask his brother to convince their parents not to return to the UK just yet.

"Tell them there’s been a serious virus outbreak—something bad is going around. Say it’s best for them to stay put a little longer, just to be safe."

It wasn’t entirely untrue—but it also wasn’t the whole reason.

Harry sighed on the other end of the line.

"You know they’ve already made plans for New Year’s and Christmas here, right? Flights booked, gifts wrapped. Mom’s been talking about that roast dinner for weeks. So, I can’t promise you anything. If they’re set on coming back, I might not be able to stop them."

Richard closed his eyes, running a hand down his face. "Just try, then. At least delay them a few more days."

"I’ll do what I can," Harry said gently. "But you know Mom—once she’s decided something, it’s easier to move a mountain."

Thankfully, the very next day, something happened in the UK that would overshadow Richard’s scandal entirely.

Previously, the government had concluded that there was "insufficient evidence" to link BSE-infected meat with the deadly brain condition vCJD.

But that changed when Professor Stephen Dorrell, the Secretary of State for Health, made a shocking announcement: new findings confirmed that vCJD was indeed linked to the consumption of BSE-infected beef.

The world was stunned.

In response, the United States immediately banned the importation of British cattle and ordered the slaughter of 499 cows that had recently arrived from the UK. The European Union imposed a global ban on exports of British beef, leading to massive trade disputes between the UK and other EU nations. The press dubbed it the "Beef War." In turn, the British government banned the sale of beef on the bone.

And no one was more relieved than Richard.

Compared to a nationwide health and trade crisis, his little tabloid scandal was nothing. The media quickly shifted focus—though the odd article still tried to squeeze a follow-up story about him, most of them simply forgot.

Richard couldn’t have asked for better timing.

"Darling! We were just looking at the suitcase sizes. Do you think Dad should pack the red tie or the blue one for Christmas dinner?"

Richard exhaled quietly. She was still set on coming.

"Mom... have you seen the news?"

There was a pause. "Oh, is this about that mad cow thing again?"

"It’s not just ’mad cow’ anymore," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. "The government officially confirmed that BSE is linked to vCJD. It’s serious, Mom. The U.S. and Europe have shut their borders to British beef, and there’s panic starting to grow."

"Oh dear..."

"They’ve banned beef on the bone. People are avoiding supermarkets. And do you remember the roast you wanted to make?"

Silence.

"It might not even be safe to cook one here. Besides, I know you don’t like flying when things feel uncertain."

She didn’t respond for a few moments.

Richard pressed on gently. "Just stay in Nice a bit longer. The weather’s better. Dad loves it there. I’ll join you after New Year if I can slip away."

"But—" she began, clearly torn.

"Mom. Please. It’s not worth risking your health over. Just give it a few more weeks. I’ll make it up to you—I promise."

Finally, she gave a soft sigh. "Alright. But you’ll have to promise me, you understand?"

Richard chuckled. "Anything you want."

After they hung up, he leaned back with a deep breath of relief.

Dodged another one. With the press distracted, his parents out of the country, and the media firestorm redirected toward national panic, Richard finally had room to breathe—and time to plan his next move.

In December, Manchester City swept through the month easily with four wins in the Premier League, catapulting them up the table and overtaking Liverpool to claim 3rd place!

The current table:

1. Manchester United – 54 points

2. Newcastle United – 49 points

3. Manchester City – 47 points

3. Liverpool – 46 points

4. Arsenal – 40 points

5. Chelsea – 35 points

But there was still one match left.

The cold East London air bit at their faces during the final training session. The squad was tired, battered from the winter grind, and mentally drifting toward New Year’s. But Robertson wasn’t having it.

Inside the cramped away dressing room at Upton Park, he stood before them—arms folded, eyes sharp.

"This is not just another match," he said, voice calm but firm. "It’s the last one of the year. It’s how we close out 1996. If you think the world hasn’t noticed us yet, believe me—they will if we end this strong."

The room went quiet. Players leaned in.

"We’ve climbed. We’ve fought. We’ve proved everyone wrong. Now finish it. Go out there and show the whole country why we’re in the top three."

He glanced around the room, making eye contact with each player before pointing toward the tunnel.

"Don’t just play for the badge—play for the future. One last push. Now, you only have 20 minutes!"

The squad rose, fueled not by fireworks or fancy speeches, but by belief. They knew this was their moment to cap off a historic run—one that no newly promoted side had achieved in years.

And as they stepped out into the roar of Upton Park, they weren’t just playing West Ham.

Upton Park is deafening; it’s impossible to hear what the stands are shouting. The scattered words that can be made out are nothing but foul language. Football isn’t a gentleman’s game; don’t expect them to dress sharply and behave like they’re attending a ballet.

Robertson ushered the players out of the locker room like a shepherd guiding his flock. Before stepping out, he glanced back at O’Neill—seated alone in front of the tactical board, his gaze distant—then gently closed the door behind him.

It had been four months since O’Neill’s injury, and only recently had he begun walking properly again.

The soft click of the door brought O’Neill out of his thoughts. He looked around the now-empty room. Just him, and somewhere nearby, Robertson—probably checking in on the visiting team’s dressing room.

Even so, O’Neill could sense Robertson’s lingering presence. He was likely standing just outside, waiting, watching. Thinking.

’He must be turning things over in his head,’ O’Neill thought, exhaling quietly.

There’s a world of difference between being an assistant manager and being the manager.

O’Neill assumed that Robertson was thinking about match strategies. In truth, what was on his mind had nothing to do with the game. Too many things had happened over the past few months—one after another, like a screaming train rushing toward him. He hadn’t had a single calm moment to properly reflect.

But now, with the locker room empty and silent, he finally had the chance to sit and really think about where he stood—and what lay ahead.

"I have something to say to you, John."

"I have something to say to you, Martin."

The two men immediately realized they had spoken at the same time. O’Neill smiled and gestured for Robertson to go first.

Robertson nodded, took a deep breath, and dropped the bomb.

"Well... it’s this. I’ve decided to leave the team at the end of the season."

O’Neill blinked, stunned. "What?"

"Hereford United has offered me the head coach position. And I’ve already accepted."

O’Neill shot up from his seat, mouth agape, staring at Robertson as if he’d just heard thunder indoors.

"When was this?"

"A month ago," Robertson admitted quietly.

O’Neill was on his feet now, pacing. "John, you can’t do this. This team needs you!" His voice rose with emotion. "Your experience—it can guide them forward. I was hoping to bring you in to help lead them."

How long had the two of them worked side by side? Since their days at Wycombe Wanderers.

Eight years. Eight solid years of partnership.

But Robertson shook his head, "Wrong, the one who can lead them is you, not me."

If O’Neill had never gotten injured—or if the results during his time as caretaker had been poor—he probably never would have dared to accept the job.

But the problem is...

Nineteen matches. One loss. Two draws. That’s the record he achieved while leading Manchester City as caretaker manager. He’s no longer just here to support—he’s ready to build.

"But, John..." No matter how highly Robertson regarded him, O’Neill was still reluctant to let him go.

Having a right-hand man he’d known for so long was always better than searching for a new one. He needed someone by his side—to remind him, to guide him, or even to criticize him when necessary. And for that role, Robertson was the best person he could ask for.

Of course, Robertson understood this."I know what you’re worried about, Martin. But rest assured, I’ll wait until the end of the season before I leave the team. We still have half a season ahead of us."

"Does Richard also know about this? Did he approve?" O’Neill couldn’t help but ask.

Robertson nodded.

"I..."

In the end, nothing came out of O’Neill’s mouth.

Soon, the atmosphere in the locker room grew awkward. Both men stood in silence—O’Neill still processing the news, Robertson quietly waiting, knowing full well how difficult the conversation had been.

But before either could say anything more, a voice crackled through the loudspeaker above them: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to today’s fixture: West Ham United versus Manchester City."

The announcement echoed through the tunnel and locker room halls, snapping both men back to reality.

Robertson glanced at the clock. "Kick-off’s in fifteen."

O’Neill took a deep breath and gave a small nod. Whatever personal matters needed resolving, the match ahead demanded full focus.

"Right," he said, straightening up and grabbing his clipboard. "Let’s give them something to talk about for the right reasons." frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

Robertson smirked faintly, the weight of the conversation lingering in his chest, but he followed O’Neill out the door.

It was matchday again. And for ninety minutes, nothing else mattered.

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