Football Dynasty-Chapter 546: Time for the Teenagers

In the final moments of the match, despite Manchester United’s desperate surge forward, Manchester City calmly dictated the tempo. With crisp, intelligent passing, they strangled the game, refusing to give the Red Devils even a single clear chance to threaten their goal.

When the referee blew the final whistle, the City supporters inside Old Trafford erupted in triumph.

Mourinho and the City coaching staff leapt from the touchline and sprinted onto the pitch, overcome with emotion. Across from them, Ferguson and his staff stood in silence, saying nothing, their eyes fixed on the grass in front of them.

"Nice result," Richard said, applauding as well.

It was a joy beyond comparison—more satisfying than if they had been out there playing themselves. The exhilaration lingered in the air, intoxicating and unforgettable, a feeling that refused to fade.

"In a thrilling and highly anticipated Manchester derby at Old Trafford, Manchester United were stunned at home, falling 3–2 to their fierce rivals, Manchester City. It was a dramatic encounter that lived up to its billing. Turning to the other results, Chelsea failed to seize the opportunity, suffering a surprise defeat to West Ham. That setback allows Manchester United to remain top of the table despite tonight’s loss. Meanwhile, City’s victory reshaped the standings: Aston Villa slipped to fourth place, while City climbed into third. However, despite the win, Manchester City only moved up one position and still trail both Chelsea and Manchester United by six points."

"Yes, Andy, I think City will feel they’ve enjoyed a bit of good fortune here. Given how unpredictable the league table has been this season, they’ll be more than satisfied with this outcome—and so will their supporters. At the very least, they’ve firmly re-established themselves in the top four."

Mourinho approached Ferguson, and the two managers exchanged a brief handshake without a single word.

At the post-match press conference, Mourinho was asked for his views on Manchester United—especially how, despite repeatedly emphasizing United’s formidable strength, City had still managed to defeat them on their own turf.

Mourinho stuck to his guns, continuing to insist that United were an extremely strong team.

The more he praised United, the more valuable City’s victory appeared, indirectly validating their own superiority. If he were to belittle United, the significance of City’s win would only be diminished.

Back in the locker room, he praised the players for their performance before the team boarded the bus back to Maine Road, where they would eventually disperse.

Richard also returned early. Once home, he changed into casual clothes—jeans, a T-shirt, and a coat. As the sky darkened, he strolled toward the entrance of the Maine Road neighborhood, where he spotted a group of teenagers chatting casually.

Xabi Alonso, Mikel Arteta, Joe Cole, Michael Carrick, and Owen Hargreaves.

Xabi Alonso was animatedly discussing City’s goal.

"Did you see that move he pulled on the defender? His timing was incredible. He faked to the right, made the defender lean that way, then suddenly cut back to the left. Right before shooting, he even shaped like he was going to pass—United’s defense instinctively tried to intercept. But instead, he shot. The curve itself wasn’t anything special. You should see him in training—he does that all the time."

Joe Cole and Mikel Arteta listened intently, while Carrick and Hargreaves barely paid attention, more focused on the Maine Road gate as they waited for the team bus.

Seeing his peers listening so seriously made Xabi feel proud—he felt he had successfully shown off his football knowledge.

Mikel Arteta then chimed in casually, "That goal? I could’ve done that too. I scored two yesterday against Preston High School."

Joe Cole scratched his head and added softly, "I scored five."

Carrick and Hargreaves frowned and asked in unison, "How many matches did you play?"

Joe Cole shrugged. "Just one. They ran away before the match even finished."

"Preston High School?" 𝕗𝗿𝕖𝐞𝐰𝗲𝕓𝐧𝕠𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝐨𝚖

Joe nodded. "It was a charity match. Since we beat United and the first team was already full, they arranged an extra game for us to get more playing time."

"One match—ninety minutes?"

"Uh... only forty minutes. Two halves of twenty. No added time either, which was really annoying."

Joe Cole was still hung up on the fact that the other team had walked off with five minutes left.

"What was the final score?"

"Thirteen–nil."

"...Were you playing against kids under fifteen?"

Joe Cole shook his head, subconsciously rubbing his shoulder. "They were all around fifteen or sixteen. But they were like gangsters. They swarmed us every time we got the ball. The coach told me to draw them in before passing. My shoulder still hurts from getting smashed."

Carrick was momentarily speechless. After clearing his throat, he straightened up.

"Well, you probably played amateurs. Three months ago, I captained a team of sixteen-year-olds and won the first Manchester City Youth Charity Cup. When we reached the regional playoffs, most of our opponents were sixteen too—some of them looked nearly eighteen, almost six feet tall."

"So," Joe Cole asked, "how many goals did you score?"

Carrick suddenly looked away, embarrassed. "Three."

"Three goals in the final?"

"...No. In all the matches."

"How many games?"

"Ten."

"..."

Joe Cole, Xabi Alonso, and Mikel Arteta exchanged glances, their expressions completely changing as they looked at Carrick.

Carrick coughed and protested, "What do you know? I’m not a forward—I’m the leader! The leader, got it? I defend, attack, assist, and clear the ball. And don’t forget—I already played this season against Tottenham!"

At the mention of Tottenham, Joe Cole and the others lifted their chins, looking at Carrick with envy.

Seeing this, Carrick laughed as loudly as he could, then quickly pulled something out of his pocket while glancing left and right.

When they saw the Snickers bar, all their eyes lit up.

Just then—

"What are you lot talking about?"

All the teenagers instinctively shrank back as a large hand gently pressed down on their heads. They had no way to avoid it—most of them were sitting, and Richard only had to lift his arm slightly to reach them.

They all turned their heads, and their eyes immediately lit up when they saw Richard.

Carrick suddenly felt a faint twinge of guilt as he noticed the hungry look in their eyes, as if they hadn’t eaten properly at the club in ages. To be fair, the food was pretty bad. It was always difficult to strike a balance between nutrition and taste.

Manchester City’s nutritionist favored a very bland diet, especially when it came to meat. There was plenty of fish and chicken, all cooked with minimal oil. Fries, cakes, and pizza were strictly forbidden.

For first-team players, this wasn’t too hard to deal with. Outside of training and matches, they could adjust their meals at home to suit their tastes. But for the younger players living in the dormitories, it was much tougher. Their meals were arranged by the club three times a day, and only during occasional visits home could they enjoy a proper family meal.

When Richard spotted the Snickers bar, the corner of his mouth twitched. He sighed and pretended not to see it. Although he strongly advocated healthy nutrition, he wasn’t completely rigid. Young players needed the occasional indulgence. If they were restricted for too long, they might binge the moment they got the chance—and that could cause serious problems.

In the past, he had occasionally taken these youngsters out for meals or cooked for them at home. But lately, with how busy he’d been, he hadn’t spent much time with them.

"How are you all doing?" Richard asked, glancing around. "Where are the others? Is it just you here?"

As his eyes swept the area, they suddenly locked onto something—or rather, someone. Essien.

Yes, Michael Essien was sitting alone, eating by himself.

Richard frowned immediately.

"What the—?"

Following Richard’s gaze, the teenagers instinctively looked over and spotted the tall figure quietly preparing to eat.

"Ah..."

They exchanged awkward glances. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to talk to him—Essien was just too quiet. He barely spoke at all, which made everyone feel uncomfortable around him. Without meaning to, they had started avoiding him. Before they could say something—

"MICHAEL!"

Richard’s shout startled everyone.

Essien froze mid-motion as he was about to sit down. Hearing his name, he jumped to his feet. When he realized it was Richard calling him, he hesitated—but in the end, he picked up his bag and plate and walked over.

"What are you doing eating alone?" Richard asked, patting him on the shoulder. "Why aren’t you sitting with your teammates?"

"...."

Essien scratched his head and gave a shy smile. Richard understood immediately.

He repeated the question two or three times, then finally switched to simple French. Only then did Essien fully understand.

Richard sighed.

"Guys, please be patient with him," he said, turning to the others. "He’s only been in Manchester for less than a year. There’s a language barrier."

Then he looked back at Essien.

"And you, Michael—you’re not alone here. These are your teammates. Don’t be afraid to ask them for help. Do you understand?"

An awkward silence instantly fell over them. They all understood the root of the problem, yet none of them knew how to address it. It wasn’t an easy thing to say out loud—especially among teenagers who were still figuring out themselves, let alone how to bridge cultural and language gaps.

Seeing this, Richard sighed. He glanced toward the spot where Essien usually sat—far from the canteen, choosing to eat outdoors just to avoid the awkwardness.

"...Alright then," Richard said at last. "We’ll eat together. My treat today."

For a split second, everyone froze.

Then they looked at one another in disbelief.

Carrick was the first to react. He elbowed Joe Cole hard in the ribs and didn’t even bother to hide his excitement.

"Did you hear that?" he whispered urgently. "He said his treat."

Joe Cole’s eyes widened. "Like... real food?"

"REAL food," Carrick nodded gravely.

That was all it took.

NO MORE BOILED CHICKEN!

NO MORE SAD FISH!

NO MORE ’STEAMED FOR HEALTH’!

Essien blinked in confusion as everyone suddenly surrounded him, grinning.

"You’re coming too," Richard said, slinging an arm around his shoulder.

"Today," he added solemnly, "you eat like normal human beings."

Bringing his Rolls-Royce and Range Rover around, Richard bundled the teenagers inside and drove them straight to a high-end restaurant.

Moments later, a perfectly cooked steak was placed in front of Richard, accompanied by a glass of orange juice. He casually glanced up—only to see complete chaos unfolding before him.

Xabi Alonso, Mikel Arteta, and Joe Cole were demolishing their steaks like men who hadn’t eaten in weeks.

Richard hadn’t even finished half of his when the three of them had already cleared two plates.

No wonder—they almost never got food like this, let alone steak. And on top of that, someone else was paying.

To be fair, the portions weren’t huge. Richard simply ate modestly, preferring balance. He even planned to touch the vegetables. The three boys, however, were locked in a life-or-death struggle with their beef, knives and forks clattering nonstop, earning more than a few disapproving glances from nearby diners.

Richard didn’t care.

There was no need for gentlemanly behavior today. As long as they were eating happily, he had no intention of reminding them about table manners.

After all—this might be the best meal they’d had all year.

When dinner finally wrapped up, the waiter looked at them as if they were some kind of curiosity. Plates stacked high, cutlery scattered everywhere—it hardly looked like fine dining.

But the moment it came time to settle the bill, the waiter’s expression changed completely. Richard paid without hesitation, and the generous tip made the staff beam from ear to ear as they escorted them out with renewed enthusiasm.

Stepping out of the restaurant, the cool night air hit them.

For a brief moment, everyone was quiet.

Then someone broke the silence.

"Boss," Carrick asked cautiously, eyes sparkling, "is there... maybe another tournament we can play in?"

The others immediately turned toward Richard.

The senior squad was full. The Premier League Youth matches and the FA Youth Cup existed, yes—but those competitions alone weren’t enough. Training pitches were shared with the first team, minutes were limited, and real match experience was scarce.

They didn’t just want to train.

They wanted to play.

Richard stopped walking.