Football Dynasty-Chapter 39: Advice

When the league campaign began, reality hit hard.

City stumbled in their opening game, suffering a frustrating 1-0 defeat at Hull's Boothferry Park. Things only got worse at Maine Road, where an unforgiving Bank Holiday crowd watched in disbelief as Oldham dismantled City 4-1.

The Blues finally picked up their first point in a 2-2 home draw with Walsall. But instead of relief, the match became infamous for the storm that followed.

Peter Swales, the club chairman, bore the full brunt of the fans' fury that day. Richard was there, witnessing for the first time just how quickly frustration could boil over into chaos.

As the final whistle blew, a group of angry supporters gathered near the exit.

Faces flushed with rage, their voices rose in a chorus of discontent. Shouts of frustration echoed through the night air, charged with the weight of years of disappointment.

Security rushed forward, barking orders. "Hey, move aside!" But their words carried more authority than reassurance.

There weren't enough guards to hold back the swelling crowd. Fans pushed closer, their emotions unchecked.

"I understand your frustration," Swales tried to reason, his voice betraying a hint of unease. "But this isn't the way to solve it."

The response was immediate.

"You're out of touch! We've been suffering for years!" one fan bellowed, his fists clenched. "This is supposed to be our club, not your toy!"

Another voice cut through the noise. "You don't care about us! You're just here for the money!"

"This is your fault!" someone shouted, pointing directly at Swales.

Swales raised his hands in a desperate attempt to restore order. "Please, everyone, calm down. Let's talk this through!"

But the fans weren't listening. The exit was blocked, every path sealed off by furious supporters. Metal gates rattled as fists pounded against them.

Jeers turned to chants. Trapped, the board had no choice but to retreat back inside Maine Road Stadium.

The noise outside swelled, a single chant growing louder, more menacing.

"GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!"

As the chants grew louder, more hostile, Swales finally stepped forward. This time, he stood alone, surrounded by security, gripping a single microphone.

Taking a deep breath, he raised it to his lips, hoping his voice would cut through the storm of anger.

"Listen," he called out over the uproar. "I understand your anger, but this isn't helping the situation! We are committed to turning things around, but we need your support—not threats or violence."

The response was brutal.

"Support? How can we support a team that lets us down week after week?"

The chants only grew louder, the message clear.

"GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!"

Swales' grip tightened around the microphone. His club, his leadership—both were being rejected in the most public, humiliating way possible. And the fans weren't going to stop until they were heard.

"Listen, guys, I'm staying put. Right now, my focus is on the team's performance and results, not any personal abuse thrown my way. I understand your frustration—you pay your hard-earned money, and the club has a responsibility to deliver. But let me make one thing clear: I'll still be sitting here at the end of the season, and I hope by then, we'll be celebrating promotion."

With that closing, Swales turned around, and soon the piercing sound of sirens filled the air.

Police had arrived. Not long after, the fans—still fuming with disappointment and frustration—slowly began to disperse.

Without a clear resolution, many had no choice but to give up on their beloved City.

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'Hmm, probably supporting the neighboring team isn't so bad either, huh?'

If Richard could hear what they were thinking, he might have realized that this was the pivotal moment when City fans began shifting their allegiance to United.

As for himself, he was strolling through the streets near Maine Road, taking in his surroundings when a sudden blare of a car horn jolted him.

He instinctively stepped aside, thinking the vehicle was passing through—only to realize something absurd.He was already on the sidewalk.

'What kind of lunatic drives on the sidewalk?!' he snapped, his anger flaring.

Just as he was about to let loose on the reckless driver, the car screeched to a stop beside him. The window rolled down, and a familiar voice called out.

"Richard, get in!"

He instantly recognized the voice.

"Yo, you got a new car?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he spotted Fay—his personal manager from William Hall—sitting behind the wheel of a sleek, brand-new ride.

Intrigued, Richard didn't hesitate. He quickly opened the door, slid into the seat, and glanced around the interior, taking in every detail.

"Hahaha, thanks to your stunt last time, the higher-ups already promoted me from supervisor. And look!" Fay grinned, patting the steering wheel affectionately. "This is my baby."

Richard's mouth twitched at the way Fay said it, but he didn't comment.

With that, the brand-new Rover 200 smoothly pulled away, its engine humming as they sped off through the streets. Richard leaned back, glancing at the dashboard. The scent of new leather filled the cabin, and the smooth purr of the engine told him the car was fresh off the lot.

"You really got yourself something fancy," Richard remarked, watching the city blur past the window.

Fay chuckled, tapping the wheel with pride. "Perks of moving up in the world. So, where to?"

Richard exhaled, his eyes still on the road ahead. He spotted a café and said, "Let's get coffee first."

After sitting down and waiting for their coffee, Richard couldn't hold back his curiosity any longer.

"So, what happened? Why did you suddenly show up here? What about Islington?"

Fay hesitated for a moment before finally speaking. "Hey, tell me... if one day I quit, what would you think?"

Richard raised an eyebrow. 'The hell is this?' If he wanted to quit, he should just do it. It wasn't like he was his career counselor.

Seeing Richard's What-am-I-supposed-to-do-with-this-information? expression, Fay quickly waved his hand. "No, no, I mean... if I jumped ship to another company, what would you think?"

'Ah, so that's it.' This guy wanted to cling to him—he didn't want to lose him.

Richard leaned back, arms crossed. "Didn't you just get promoted?"

As far as he remembered, Fay had just gone from Betting Shop Assistant to Retail Supervisor. Wasn't he supposed to be celebrating? Why was he suddenly talking about leaving?

But at the same time, he was intrigued. Which company was trying to poach him? It had to be a bigger one, right? But then... was there even a betting company bigger than William Hall?

Wait... don't tell me—

If there was one giant in the industry, it could only be the UK's state-franchised lottery, operating under a government license—The National Lottery.

But wait... wasn't the National Lottery created later? It shouldn't exist yet, right?

Was this some kind of butterfly effect because he won too much?

"No, the company was just established, and out of nowhere, they came knocking on my door, asking me to join them. The salary isn't that different, but the position they're offering is insanely good," Fay said, rubbing his head like he was trying to physically smooth out his stress.

"Alright, spill it. What company? And what job is so good that you're ready to dump William Hall like an ex who just won the lottery?"

"It's... it's Paddy Power."

Richard's smile froze.

"They offered me to be their Operations Manager," Fay continued, clearly uncomfortable. "But, uh... you know there's a catch, right?"

Richard slowly put his cup down, already sensing the nonsense coming his way. "Go on..."

"Well... simply put, I get the job if my client—okay, you get it now."

Richard sighed. Of course. There had to be a twist.

Gambling companies had a strict hierarchy. You started at entry level—Betting Shop Assistant, Customer Service, or Retail Supervisor/Team Leader as the threshold. Then came mid-level roles, and above that, the holy grail: Senior and Management positions.

Operations Manager?

That was one of the senior roles alongside Marketing Manager, Product Manager, Odds Compiler, Senior Risk Analyst, and others.

Fay was basically being handed a golden elevator past mid-level straight to the top floor. No wonder he looked like he was about to have a nervous breakdown.

"Take it."

"What?"

"I said take the job. I'm following you."

Fay froze, processing the words like an old computer on dial-up.

"Seriously?!" He shot up from his seat so fast the chair nearly toppled over. In his excitement, he almost grabbed Richard's hand—before realizing what he was about to do.

Richard's reflexes kicked in, his hand already mid-air, ready to slap away whatever nonsense was happening. Fay yanked his hand back just in time.

Paddy Power—who would later become one of the biggest bookmakers around—was already making waves. And Richard knew exactly why they were after Fay. Or rather, why they were after him.

Paddy Power catered to a younger crowd, thriving on humor and the kind of bold advertising that made traditional bookies clutch their pearls.

Their marketing was cheeky, often outright scandalous—bets on elections, celebrity scandals, political resignations... heck, they even took bets on UFO sightings. If it was ridiculous, Paddy Power probably had odds on it.

So what were they missing?

Oh, right. A walking, talking controversy magnet.

With his infamous bet against England, his massive wager on the Soviet Union, and his public speeches that turned English football into a raging inferno, there was nothing—nothing—Paddy Power wanted more than Richard Maddox.

Their philosophy was simple: the more outrageous, the better. And who better to embody that than the man who had single-handedly given the FA a collective aneurysm?

Before Richard could say anything, his brick phone suddenly rang. Thinking it might be his family, he instinctively picked it up without hesitation.

"Hello?"

The moment he heard the voice on the other end, he was taken aback.

Wrong number?

That didn't make sense—he had never given his number to anyone outside his close circle. So how the hell was this person calling him?

"Hello, Mr. Richard? Is this Mr. Richard Maddox?"

The voice was old, unfamiliar, and filled with panic. The unexpected formality snapped Richard out of his thoughts.

"Yes, yes, this is Richard. Who is this?"

"Mr. Richard, it's me... Something—something happened to Ian. Please, help."

Richard immediately sat up straight, his heart pounding.

"Mr. Pigden? Is that you? What happened to Ian?!"

"Ian—the police caught him. Please, Mr. Richard, you have to help!"

"What?! Where is he now? I'm going to get him!"

"They... they have him in Chelmsford Prison. He's being held there."

Richard clenched his jaw, gripping the phone tightly. "Got it. Thanks for letting me know, Mr. Pigden."

Without wasting a second, he turned to Fay, grabbed his arm, and pulled him up from his seat.

"Drive me to Chelmsford Prison. Now."

Fay blinked, confused by Richard's sudden urgency. "Wait, what? What the hell happened?"

"Just drive, I'll explain on the way!" Richard snapped, already moving toward the car.