As the second half was about to begin, a sense of gloom hung over the City stands. The dull first half had drained the spectators’ enthusiasm, and the sudden goal had nearly broken the hearts of every City fan in attendance. Yet, over in the southern stand, something unexpected happened—a synchronized applause broke out.

    Clap, clap, Manchester City!

    Clap, clap, Manchester City!

    Carl Morran led a group of a hundred young fans, clapping twice in unison before raising their hands high and shouting in chorus, "No matter where you go, I follow you everywhere~"

    Before long, the momentum spread throughout the stands, infecting every City supporter present.

    Even the broadcast cameras swept over the crowd, and the commentator exclaimed,"We’re used to the lively atmosphere of City fans, but at this moment, we are witnessing their most genuine side. A voice echoes across the sky: Manchester City!"

    In the changing room, the players lowered their heads. They could hear the chants resonating around them.

    Robertson took a slow breath, his eyes moving across the room, locking onto each player.

    "We’re halfway there. But we need more."

    Silence. The players listened closely.

    He pointed to Robbie Savage, Neil Lennon, and McNamara.

    "You three are doing great breaking up their midfield, but don’t let them dictate the tempo. Keep them uncomfortable."

    He avoided mentioning Savage’s earlier mistake. Then, turning to Roberto Carlos and Cafu:

    "You’ve got their full-backs beat—every single time. Stay aggressive. Take them on. No hesitation."

    He turned to Shevchenko and Larsson: "You’ve battled hard, but I need you to hold the ball up better. Keep their center-backs occupied. Draw them out."

    Finally, to the entire squad: "We planned for this. We knew how they play, and we’ve exposed them. Now, we finish the job."

    The intensity in the room grew. The players nodded, exchanging determined looks.

    Robertson clapped his hands once.

    "Let’s go win this."

    If Richard had been there, he would’ve immediately said, ’See? You can’t copy O’Neill’s halftime talks! So stop being stubborn and listen to me!’

    Waiting on the pitch for the second half to kick off ignited a fire within the hearts of the City players. This surge of passion engulfed them, transforming into a source of boundless determination. In the center circle, Larsson and Shevchenko locked eyes—serious expressions on their faces, yet filled with mutual encouragement.

    Standing before the coaching bench, Robertson maintained a stoic face, but inside, he felt both nervous and grateful to whoever the City fan was who organized the chant and clapping.

    What they were witnessing was a promising start.

    Amidst the thunderous cheers, the referee blew the whistle, signaling the beginning of the second half.

    PHWEEEE!!!

    Manchester City kicked off, passing the ball back before spreading out into an attacking formation.

    The ball moved back and forth in midfield until it found Lennon, who had created some space in the attacking third. Positioned on the right side of midfield, he took the ball confidently, turned, and without hesitation, rolled it toward the right flank.

    Cafu made a run, but Charlton’s left back, Dean Chandler—who had tightly marked him in the first half—was already close by, confidence evident on his face.

    It was clear from his movements that he intended to intercept the ball the moment Cafu prepared to receive it, a tactic that had worked several times in the first half.

    A vital aspect of tight marking is familiarizing oneself with the opponent’s favored foot—forcing them to use their weaker side or, even better, restricting their movement area.

    For instance, if a player likes to get to the byline, cut off that route. If they excel at cutting inside, force them toward the sidelines. So Chandler seemed to be just waiting for Cafu to take a touch with his right foot to strike.

    Unexpectedly, Cafu extended his right foot for a touch, but instead of stopping the ball as everyone expected, he flicked it back toward Lennon in the center.

    Caught off guard, Chandler reacted too late. Lennon seized the moment and darted past him, while he scrambled to recover.

    Just as Chandler turned to look for Lennon, the ball suddenly returned to Cafu, who was already charging forward.

    The sudden one-two left Brown completely disoriented.

    Thankfully, Charlton already knew their mission: to park the bus!

    When Cafu made a cross toward the goal, Shevchenko and Larsson struggled to break through the many Charlton players blocking them.

    The beautiful one-two became wasted, as no goal came from it.

    Richard slumped in his chair, deeply disappointed.

    For the next thirty minutes, City’s few attempts at organizing attacks were all thwarted by Charlton’s defense, which had a clear numerical advantage in their backline.

    Charlton naturally knew that since the second leg would be played at Maine Road, it was better to secure their advantage now.

    On the City sidelines, Robertson remained stoic until Domènec Torrent patted his shoulder.

    "What’s happening?" Robertson asked.

    "Do you think it’s time to change the striker?" Torrent replied. "We’ve been pressing for thirty minutes, but Larsson and Shevchenko haven’t made an impact. We need more creativity and sharper finishing up front."

    Robertson was suddenly taken aback by this suggestion.

    "Creativity...?" he echoed, the word resonating deeply within him.

    It was familiar—too familiar.

    His mind flashed back to his previous conversation with Richard, the passionate arguments about the need for ingenuity and vision on the field.

    His eyes then settled on Thierry Henry, who was quietly sitting and watching the match intently.

    "Thierry!"

    Henry, who had been waiting on the sidelines, was shocked by the sudden shout, but then finally heard the words he had been waiting for: You’re in!

    Because they wanted to chase the equalizer, the best choice was to keep Shevchenko and Larsson on the field and instead take Robbie Savage off.

    "Tell Shevchenko to move to the right. You take the left, and Larsson stays in the center. Now switch the formation to 4-3-3."

    Henry was disappointed by this. He began to regret his decision to join City. Wasn’t he promised to play as a striker? So why was he being pushed out to the left wing again? Yet, he kept his frustration to himself, not voicing his doubts aloud.

    With Savage out, the formation changed to:

    GK: Lehmann

    DF: Cafu, Ferdinand, Gallas, Roberto Carlos

    MF: Jackie McNamara, Neil Lennon, Van Bommel

    FW: Shevchenko, Larsson, Henry

    "Manchester City make a change—Thierry Henry comes on for Robbie Savage. What do you think about that, Mark?"

    "Well, to be honest with you, I don’t think it’ll change much for City. If I’m being blunt, I just don’t see this making a real impact—now or in the future."

    "Harsh words! You’re not convinced by Henry at all? City paid ￡5 million for him!"

    "That’s exactly what I don’t understand. ￡5 million for a forward who’s only managed 20 goals in 105 appearances? That’s not exactly prolific. That’s one goal every... what, five games?"

    "So you’re saying City paid more for vibes than goals?"

    "Exactly. He’s fast, he’s flashy—but this isn’t a fashion show. This is English football. In every match, you need end product, not just pace."

    "Well, let’s see if Henry hears you from here and proves you wrong on the pitch."

    "I’d love to eat my words. But as it stands? City need a mira—"

    GOOOAAAALLLL!!!

    The commentator, named Mark, shut his mouth instantly. His words caught in his throat as he stared wide-eyed at the pitch.

    Because the player wheeling away in celebration—the very one he had just mocked—was none other than Thierry Henry.

    It was him.

    The same player he had dismissed as overhyped, overpriced, and underperforming. The same man he claimed wouldn’t make a difference.

    "How… how is that possible?!"

    Not even a minute!!!

    The stadium roared. City fans erupted, their voices echoing like thunder across The Valley. Meanwhile, the commentator sat frozen, headphones still on, mouth half-open.

    "Well, Mark… would you like that slice of humble pie now or after the replay?"

    Mark exhaled—but said nothing.

    Two minutes earlier…

    Taking advantage of a throw-in opportunity, Robertson shouted instructions to his players. As they looked back, he gestured with his hands—two fingers pointed forward, followed by a spreading motion, then clenched fists brought together.

    The three attackers up front nodded in response, signaling they understood the plan.

    Alan Curbishley, standing on the home team’s bench, wore a slightly puzzled expression.

    After the ball was thrown in, The two wingers, Henry and Shevchenko, dropped deeper into midfield. After a quick combination with Lennon in the center, both of them cut inside toward the penalty area.

    Behind them, Roberto Carlos and Cafu pushed high up the flanks, forcing the Charlton players to stay wide and preventing them from flooding the middle.

    Seeing this unfold, Curbishley’s heart sank. From his point of view, there was a clear gap.

    "Drop back! Tighter, tighter!" he shouted, his voice cracking with urgency. "Close the space!"

    It was clear that only one central defender, Steve Brown, remained in the center of the penalty area. Stuart Balmer and Phil Chapple had been drawn out by Henry and Shevchenko. Even the fullbacks and midfielders—somehow—were pulled towards Cafu and Roberto Carlos.

    Curbishley slapped his forehead. He suddenly remembered how, halfway through the first half, when he switched to a 5-3-2 formation, he had instructed two players to mark Roberto Carlos and Cafu.

    Now, his tactic had backfired!

    Basically, five City players suddenly pushed forward, stretching Charlton’s defense without them realizing it. They all lost their marking as a result.

    Henry and Shevchenko cut inside toward the center, while their wide roles were taken over by Roberto Carlos and Cafu.

    When Lennon had the ball, Steve Brown hesitated between blocking him or dropping back. Behind him, Shevchenko was clearly moving freely but the ball was with Lennon, so he decided to trust his instincts and stay safe.

    This threw Lennon’s plan off because if he took the bait and advanced with the ball, Larsson would be nearly one-on-one with the goalkeeper.

    Still, seeing this, he calmed himself and looked left and right before suddenly Cafu—who was literally being marked by three players—burst forward, his hand moving in a beckoning gesture for the ball.

    Without hesitation, Lennon made a sideways pass to Cafu.

    The three players behind Cafu chased after him, ready to foul, but unexpectedly, Cafu didn’t even hold onto the ball. Instead, he immediately chipped it toward far post area.

    Defending for nearly thirty minutes had already drained Brown’s stamina, and he was sweating profusely. He saw the ball flying far away and thought it was going out as it sailed over his head, so his eyes remained on the ball above him.

    But from the corner of his eye, as he followed the ball, he noticed a figure flashing past him.

    F—uck!

    Thierry Henry!

    The two wingers had seamlessly outplayed their defenders, hardly ever taking a break—especially Henry, who was literally fresh throughout.

    After the ball was chipped into the box, Henry had only Charlton’s goalkeeper, Mike Salmon, to beat!

    Henry didn’t hesitate; he struck the ball directly!

    Robertson and the staff watched the play unfold from the sidelines, already envisioning Henry scoring.

    But Henry mis-hit it!

    He swung his leg gracefully, but the ball and his foot didn’t connect perfectly—instead, his shin struck the ball.

    Mike Salmon, anticipating the shot, was already closing in and made a Spiderman-like save, leaving no chance for the ball to get through.

    Expecting Henry to volley powerfully toward the center, he stayed central and spread his hands and feet as wide as possible.

    But no one expected the ball to take such a bizarre trajectory.

    Instead of a clean volley, Henry struck the ball on its upper edge, causing it to spin and float slowly through the air.

    Slow.

    Gentle.

    It hovered just above Salmon’s head, teasingly out of reach—almost mocking him.

    Salmon wanted to reach it, but the only thing that could reach the ball was his eyes, which remained locked on it.

    Richard clutched his head in disbelief, his eyes wide with shock. S~ea??h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

    "That goal should’ve been a contender for the Puskás Award!" he exclaimed, unable to hide his amazement.

    He couldn’t clearly see what was happening, but surely even an amateur keeper could have saved this shot?

    It was so damn slow.

    But Salmon had already made a web with his body, veins and eyes bulging as he slowly raised his head to watch the ball—just spinning above him, drifting feather-light into the goal.

    GOAL!!!

    "The ball’s in! Henry has opened the scoring for Manchester City with an incredibly bizarre goal! He was at the far post with no one near him. Cafu saw him and then made a perfect chip, putting Henry in an ideal shooting position. But instead of using his foot, Henry struck the ball with his shin! The ball, with a significant spin, floated gently into Charlton’s net. There’s no denying that luck played a big part in this goal...!"

    Henry, who had fallen to the ground after his failed shot, was heartbroken. He had slipped because he didn’t make solid contact with the ball. But as he sat up and saw the ball resting inside the net, he was stunned.

    He wanted to ask the goalkeeper, ’I messed up, but what were you doing?’

    Mike Salmon, after tumbling to the ground, looked up in shock—just like Henry.

    Henry then got up, rubbing his backside as he was swarmed by his teammates on the bench, especially his first friend at City, who was celebrating the goal.

    "Thierry, when did you learn to shoot with your shin? Teach me sometime!" said David Trezeguet.

    Amidst laughter, City’s players began retreating to their half.

    Richard experienced a rollercoaster of emotions—expectation, disappointment, then surprise—before finally breaking into a grin.

    "We’ll be waiting for you at Maine Road!"