Football Dynasty

Chapter 172: Baby-faced Assassin!

O’Neill looked at both of them, his expression serious. He spoke in a calm but focused tone.

"Ole, you’re a smart player. Even when you’re not on the field, you can read the game. But I need you to focus on one thing."

He paused for a moment, making sure Solskjær was following.

"Just wait for the ball to come to you," O’Neill continued. "Get into the right position, and when it comes, make sure you’re ready to take your shot. Don’t get caught up trying to beat their defenders or win every battle. The only thing that matters is putting that ball in the back of the net. If you do that, you’ve done your job. Everything else doesn’t matter. Understand?"

Solskjær gave a firm nod, the determination in his eyes showing that he fully understood the task at hand.

O’Neill shifted his gaze to Shevchenko, who had been listening intently. "And Andriy," he said, his tone firm yet filled with trust, "this is your moment. I need you to stay sharp, find those gaps in their defense, and pull them out of position. If the opportunity comes to break through, make it count. Don’t hesitate."

One thing O’Neill had noticed during their training sessions—especially with Shevchenko—was how well he could use both feet!

It made him more versatile, more dangerous in attack. Though Shevchenko wasn’t as nimble or quick as someone like Ronaldo, but he made up for it with his strength in dribbling.

Shevchenko nodded, a sense of calm confidence returning to him. He was ready.

"Boss, I understand,"

O’Neill patted their backs encouragingly. "We know what we’re capable of. So, your job is simple: disrupt their defense, just like you always do in training. Now, go out there and show them what we’re made of."

PHWEEE!

At the 55th minute, the commentator’s voice rang out, loud and clear: "Here comes the change. Ronaldo and Henrik Larsson are coming off, and in their place—Ole Gunnar Solskjær and Andriy Shevchenko."

As the substitution was announced, Ronaldo’s frustration was impossible to miss. His shoulders drooped, and his expression tightened with annoyance.

The usually confident and fiery forward, so accustomed to being the one leading the charge, couldn’t hide his displeasure as he trudged off the pitch.

"Boss, just ten more minutes—no, five! I can score," Ronaldo said, almost pleading. His eyes were locked on O’Neill, and there was a sense of frustration in his tone. He wanted a chance to make an impact, to be the one to turn the game around.

"Stop being childish," O’Neill said, his voice firm. "There are still forty-four matches left in the league. I could let you play a full ninety minutes in every game, but at that rate, you’d probably only make it halfway through the season. Is that really what you want?"

The words were a reminder of the bigger picture, the need for patience and balance.

O’Neill knew Ronaldo’s hunger to play, but he also understood the importance of managing players’ fitness throughout a long, grueling season—especially after what he had just witnessed, with both him and Roberto Carlos already gasping for air before the first half even ended.

"Jobson!" O’Neill turned to Richard Jobson, the left-back sitting on the bench, and instructed, "Warm up."

Richard Jobson, who had been waiting patiently, sprang to his feet, nodding quickly. He had been keeping an eye on the game, knowing his time might come. His boots were already on, but he quickly ran to the touchline, stretching his legs and limbering up in preparation.

As the match between entered the 80th minute of the second half, almost everyone believed that the two teams would settle for a draw.

Even Richard, seated in the stands, felt that a handshake between the two sides would be a fair conclusion, given the way the match had unfolded.

Stoke had set up camp deep in their own half, essentially with ten men behind the ball, frustrating City’s attempts at breaking them down.

But sometimes, surprises come quietly, when you least expect them.

Cafu, stationed on the right, received the ball once again.

Throughout the previous eighty minutes, his usual approach was to deliver a cross from the wing at a 45-degree angle or make a precise through ball, aiming to exploit the gaps between Stoke’s full-backs and center-backs.

It had been his signature move, a reliable weapon in City’s attack. But this time, something was different.

Cafu, with a quick feint that fooled the oncoming defender, shifted the ball to his left. Rather than continuing down the wing, he dribbled inward, cutting across the field and moving closer to the center.

His eyes scanned the area ahead, reading the situation with precision. Then, like a chess player making the final move, he saw it—an opening.

Without hesitation, he passed the ball through the gap, sending it toward the right side of the penalty arc. It was a subtle shift in approach, a calculated risk, and it had the potential to unlock the defense in a way no one had seen coming.

Stoke City’s midfielder caught sight of the pass and immediately spun around, his eyes widening in shock.

’Solskjær?! When did he get there?!’

Since coming on for Larsson, Solskjær had mostly stayed near the edge of the penalty area, drifting around and frustrating Stoke’s defenders. He hadn’t posed a serious threat up until that point—until now. His movement had been subtle, almost unnoticeable, as he maneuvered into position, biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

And this was it.

He suddenly appeared at the edge of the penalty area, unmarked by any defenders.

With his body half-turned toward the goal, Solskjær felt a calmness as he faced Cafu’s pass.

Having observed the flow of the game from the bench, finding himself in this position wasn’t accidental!

This was the space where there was usually room to maneuver!

This was the area where, essentially, all the Stoke defenders had their backs turned. It was a moment of opportunity, a small window of time when the defense was caught off guard, focused more on the ball rather than the positioning of the players around them.

The penalty area was crowded, and Solskjær knew he had no space to dribble, not even enough time to control the ball and turn. Thus, he had already decided what to do the moment before receiving the ball.

Shoot!

He had to take the shot!

His mind was set—he would strike first time, no hesitation.

This wasn’t a time for overthinking, but for executing with precision. The angle was tight, the pressure immense, but in this instant, everything felt clear.

Solskjær met the rolling ball with the inside of his right foot, delicately curving it toward the top right corner of the Stoke goal. The strike was perfect—a blend of precision and power.

As soon as the ball left his foot, Solskjær lifted his head, eyes locked on the trajectory, watching it soar like a rainbow toward its destination.

But in the next heartbeat, his expression shifted from hope to disbelief.

The ball seemed destined for the net, but...

It smashed against the crossbar with a resounding thud and ricocheted back into the field.

"F*ck! How much luck does Stoke have?!"

From the stands, Richard cursed under his breath, unable to hide his frustration. Around him, a wave of gasps rolled through the crowd.

The thud of the ball hitting the crossbar still echoed in the cold evening air, hanging like unfinished business.

Down on the pitch, Solskjær froze—jaw clenched, fists half-raised. That should’ve gone in. It deserved to go in. The goal had been right there. He felt the frustration rising, about to boil over—

Then he saw it.

His expression snapped into focus. He raised his right arm and slapped it with his left, spinning toward the referee. "Handball! Ref, handball!"

The penalty area was a mess—jammed with players, tension, and confusion. Amid the scramble, one of Stoke’s defenders had been caught off guard. The ball had ricocheted straight at him from the crossbar, and in the split-second panic, it struck his arm. He hadn’t meant it—but that didn’t matter.

The ball had touched a hand. In the box.

And everyone knew what that could mean.

The other City players immediately joined in—hands shooting up into the air, voices rising in unison.

"Ref! That’s a handball!"

"Come on, ref—clear as day!"

"He blocked it with his arm!"

They swarmed the edge of the penalty area—not aggressively, but with the urgency of players who knew a critical moment had just slipped through their fingers—unless it could still be salvaged.

The referee stepped forward slowly, eyes scanning the scene. Then, he raised his whistle to his lips.

Richard leaned forward in his seat, barely breathing. The crowd around him buzzed with confusion and anticipation. Half the stadium was shouting for a penalty; the other half held its breath, hoping the ref would wave it away.

PHWEEE!

The referee pointed to the penalty spot. _{n𝚘vp𝚞𝚋.com}

The stadium erupted—one side in outrage, the other in pure euphoria.

Solskjær stepped forward, the ball in his hands, his expression calm but focused. The noise around him was deafening—chants, whistles, and cries from both sets of fans merging into a chaotic roar—but inside his head, there was silence.

He placed the ball gently on the spot, adjusting it with the care of a craftsman. Then he took a few steps back, eyes fixed on the goalkeeper, who was bouncing on his toes, trying to read any hint of where the shot might go.

The referee blew his whistle.

Solskjær inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly.

In one smooth motion, he ran up—a short, composed stride—and struck the ball low and hard to the keeper’s right.

The Stoke keeper guessed the wrong way.

The net rippled.

GOAL!

Victoria Ground erupted in celebration.

Solskjær wheeled away, fists pumping, roaring as his teammates swarmed him. The deadlock was broken. City had taken the lead.

Stoke City 0 - 1 Manchester City.

After the penalty was scored, Richard slumped back in his seat, exhaling deeply.

No matter how close the game had been, winning always felt better than settling for a draw—especially against a team that loved to park the bus like this.

With just eight minutes left on the clock, Stoke—now trailing at home—had no choice but to abandon their ultra-defensive setup. After all, what’s the point of parking the bus when you’re already a goal down?

Their strategy quickly shifted into a high-risk, all-out attack mode—a kind of footballing kamikaze. They launched wave after wave of an attacks, but each time they were snuffed out by City’s relentless press.

Then came the 92nd minute—deep into stoppage time.

Rio Ferdinand rose to meet a long ball and headed it wide toward the left. On the opposite side, Richard Jobson, full of energy after coming on late, cleared the ball down the left, turning defense into a lightning-fast counter.

The ball fell perfectly to Solskjær near the center circle. With one swift motion, he headed it backward into space.

Just a few yards away, Shevchenko was already on the move, sprinting forward as if he was about to smash a first-time volley.

Stoke’s defenders panicked. They turned and braced themselves for a thunderous strike.

But the shot never came.

Instead, Shevchenko, showing his skill, slowed down and simply tapped the ball forward with a soft touch—just enough to let it roll into open space.

And who was waiting there?

Solskjær—completely unmarked.

Once again.

There’s a reason why he was called the Baby Assassin.

With no defenders in sight and only the keeper to beat, Solskjær didn’t rush. He stayed calm, took a touch outside the box, and slotted a low shot into the bottom right corner with clinical precision.

Stoke City 0 – 2 Manchester City.

In less than ten minutes, Solskjær had transformed the game.

He broke the deadlock, drew a penalty, scored again, and turned a frustrating draw into a solid away win—just when City needed it most. It was a late show of brilliance that not only secured all three points but also injected fresh belief into the squad ahead of the coming fixtures.