Football Dynasty

Chapter 94: Unexpected Encounter

"Bloody hell, it’s freezing!" Richard muttered, pulling his coat tighter around himself as the cold wind bit at his face.

John chuckled. "Welcome to Scotland, mate."

Richard exhaled, watching his breath fog up in the crisp air. "I wasn’t expecting it to be this cold." He rubbed his hands together briskly and glanced around. "John, first stop—coffee!"

But John paused for a moment, checking his phone. His expression shifted slightly, becoming more serious."No—you go ahead first. I need to meet Ian."

Richard blinked, "We just landed." _{𝖓𝔬𝔳𝔭𝔲𝔟.𝖈𝖔𝔪}

John gave a small nod. "Exactly. This is a critical window—we can’t afford to waste it. Besides, we’re only here for a day."

Richard smiled bitterly. This was exactly why he hesitated to fire John as the club’s current general manager. Until he found the right replacement, it was better to keep someone who genuinely loved his job.

"Ah, yes. Indeed..." Richard nodded in understanding. "Alright then. I’ll be waiting here for the good news."

John nodded and was already turning away.

Richard watched him disappear into the cold morning crowd, then crossed the street and spotted a modest café nestled between a butcher’s and a bookshop. It looked warm, inviting—perfect.

He stepped inside, the doorbell chiming softly above him.

A wave of warmth, coffee, and the scent of breakfast wrapped around him like a blanket.

"...and we’re still receiving tributes from across the football world following the death of Sir Matt Busby, who passed away yesterday at the age of 84..."

’Ah, they’re still mourning...’ Richard thought, tactful enough not to disturb anyone present.

Former Manchester United manager Sir Matt Busby dies aged 84. He was a towering figure in British sporting history—a symbol of resilience, rebuilding Manchester United from the ashes of the Munich Air Disaster in 1958 and leading them to European glory just a decade later.

At a corner table, two older men in flat caps were deep in conversation—speaking just loud enough for Richard to catch fragments as he waited.

"...never saw anyone rebuild a team like that after Munich... not in this day and age, I’ll tell you that."

"Aye, and the way he protected his boys. Busby was a giant. A real father figure."

Richard made his way to the counter. The barista, a woman in her forties with auburn hair tied back under a black cap, gave him a nod.

"Just a coffee, please. Black."

"Okay, please wait a moment," she replied with a polite smile.

While waiting for his coffee, Richard reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper, and began sketching out the best possible scenario for Manchester City’s future.

Of course, the most important aspect was performance on the pitch. Everything else came second. His current focus was on rebuilding the team. It had to be done step by step—there were no shortcuts.

Competing in the Second Division meant adapting to the realities of the league. It wasn’t glamorous football.

The pitches were rough, the defenders even rougher. Trying to rely on elegant, technical play would only lead to disaster against teams that played with grit and aggression.

That’s why wing play—particularly crosses into the box—remained a cornerstone tactic for many lower-league clubs.

Strikers were often used as target men, staying positioned inside the box, waiting to head the ball into the net.

It was an old-school approach, but in the lower leagues, it worked. It created chances, invited chaos, and forced defenders into uncomfortable situations. In fact, even looking ahead, this tactic would remain crucial well into the Premier League—perhaps even for the next two decades.

The role of wide players was already evolving. Full-backs were beginning to take on more attacking responsibilities, while traditional wingers were being asked to cut inside, switch flanks, and adapt. Flexibility was becoming the standard.

"Wingers cross. Full-backs overlap. Midfielders arrive late. A simple blueprint, but effective," Richard wrote but then he sighed, "But for the current City... it feels like they’ll need to reinvent themselves completely."

Looking at the current City squad, he realized there were only a handful of players truly capable of playing wide. Paul Lake was one of the few with that kind, and perhaps Tony Grant—the loanee—could fill in when needed. But beyond that, the options were limited.

But O’Neill had asked for a midfielder who could defend—not someone to play out wide. That could only mean one thing: he already knew the situation. He was well aware of the lack of natural wide players in the squad.

There was only one conclusion—he’d be counting heavily on the tenacity and growth of the two young full-backs they’d recently brought in: Cafu and Roberto Carlos, wouldn’t he?

Playing this kind of tactical guessing game made Richard feel oddly happy.

It was exactly the kind of challenge he loved—piecing together puzzles, reading between the lines, trying to get into the mind of a manager. It gave him a quiet thrill, like he was part of something deeper than just numbers and contracts.

"Sir, your coffee," the barista said gently as she placed the cup on the counter.

"Oh—yeah, thanks." Richard quickly folded the piece of paper he’d been scribbling on and slipped it into his coat pocket.

He took a cautious sip, letting the warmth spread through his chest. Then, giving the barista a thumbs-up, he smiled. "Delicious. Thanks."

She grinned. "Glad you like it."

After paying, just as he turned around—BAM.

He collided with someone who had just come through the entrance, clearly in a rush.

Papers exploded into the air like startled pigeons, fluttering across the café floor.

The woman gasped and froze in place, her cheeks turning crimson."Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there!" she blurted out, clearly panicked and flustered. She hovered awkwardly, unsure whether to help or retreat.

Thankfully, Richard had just grabbed his coffee tightly and managed to stay upright, so not a single drop spilled. He let out a quiet sigh of relief.

Not wanting to make a fuss, he quickly placed the cup down on a nearby table and waved a hand dismissively."It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Bit of a mess, but we’ll sort it out. Are you okay?"

"I’m okay, thanks," she mumbled, still not meeting his eyes as she crouched to gather her scattered pages.

Richard, of course, also helped her—after all, it was simply too many papers, and the other customers were already looking in their direction.He couldn’t help but curse his bad luck—was this some kind of sign that he was about to be kicked out of Scotland?

But just as he reached for one of the papers, something caught his eye. At the top of the page, a title made his heart skip a beat—Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.

He formed an "O" with his mouth. ’No way...’

"Ah, Joanne!"

The barista, who had just emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of clean cups, froze mid-step when she saw the customer she’d just served and her younger sister crouched awkwardly on the floor surrounded by scattered papers.

She hurried over, "Joanne, are you okay?"

"I’m fine, really," Joanne muttered, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, clearly flustered.

The barista turned to Richard, also visibly apologetic. "I’m so sorry about this. She’s my sister. She just flew in last night and insisted on helping me this morning—still half asleep, probably."

Richard gave a small, polite smile and waved his hand dismissively. "No worries at all. Really. Just a little accident—nothing broken." He gestured toward the coffee cup on the table. "Even the coffee survived."

"What happened?"

The question this time came from a man who appeared behind the barista. He wore a flour-dusted apron and carried a tray of freshly baked croissants.

And so began the fateful encounter between Richard and the Rowling family.

The woman who collided with Richard was, of course, the main protagonist—Joanne Rowling, better known by her pen name, J.K. Rowling. The barista turned out to be her sister, and the man who had just arrived carrying a tray of fresh croissants was her husband.

And the reason why the future J.K. Rowling was in such a hurry that she bumped into Richard was because...

"If I say ’nose,’ you point to your nose. If I say ’eyes,’ you point to your eyes," Richard explained eagerly.

As soon as he finished speaking, a soft clapping followed—clap clap—accompanied by a milky, childish voice.

"Okay, okay! I wanna play!" The little girl bounced excitedly, adjusting her sitting posture.

She looked like she was about to start but suddenly remembered something. With a quick wave of her chubby hand, she said, "Hand!"—clearly asking for his hand.

Richard was confused but stretched his hand out anyway. "Give you my hand? What do I do?"

The adorably innocent two-year-old, Jessica Isabel Rowling Arantes, reached for his fingers. Her tiny, soft hands were too small to hold his entire hand, so she settled for grasping just two of his fingers—one in each hand.

After securing her grip, Jessica nodded seriously, as if the game was a matter of life and death. But in the very next second, her eyes twinkled mischievously, her lips curling into a playful smile. Acting as if nothing was unusual, she suddenly blurted out, "Nose!"

The little girl’s crisp voice shattered the "tense" atmosphere.

Richard reacted very quickly this time—almost too quickly. He immediately raised his hand, but instead of pointing to his nose, he accidentally pointed to his eyes first.

Realizing his mistake, he pretended to panic, his finger slowly sliding down from his eyes to his nose, as if trying to correct himself.

His expression was one of exaggerated embarrassment, like he’d been caught red-handed. But the little girl wasn’t so easily fooled. She took the game very seriously. She instantly jumped up from her baby chair in protest.

Alarmed, Richard hurriedly wrapped his arms around her, afraid she might fall. She snuggled up against his arm before dramatically opening her little mouth wide, ready to declare judgment.

"I saw it! You twicked me! Hmph, bad guy!" she accused, her tiny voice full of righteous indignation.

Richard burst into laughter. "Hahaha! Is that so?" he teased, ruffling her soft curls.

Jessica pouted, narrowing her big, bright eyes at him.

The sight made everyone watching chuckle in amusement. The café filled with gentle laughter as they watched the innocent joy of the little girl.

Joanne looked at her daughter’s joyful expression with a warm smile—but then, that smile slowly faded. Her eyes grew misty, and she quickly wiped away a tear.

It had been so long since she’d seen her little girl laugh and play like this. Her heart ached as memories rushed in—the arguments, the tension, the fear that had pushed her to leave.

For now, she planned to stay with her sister until at least Christmas. It was the safest place she could think of. But even then she felt a gnawing unease. She didn’t want to overstay her welcome.

Her sister and brother-in-law had already done so much for her. What she really wanted was to move forward—to find a place of her own, to raise her daughter independently, to build a new life from the pieces of the old one.

Still, her finances were tight. She had once thought about enrolling in a teacher training course but had held back, afraid she would end up doing everything halfway—neither finishing the course nor the book she was secretly working on. She was stuck in limbo, torn between responsibilities and dreams.

Sensing her sister’s growing discomfort, the barista—Joanne’s sister—gently placed a hand on her arm and gave her a reassuring smile. "It’s okay. No one’s going to trouble you here. I’ll talk to your brother-in-law about it. You can stay as long as you need."

Thinking Joanne was just upset about everything that had happened in her marriage, she offered no questions—just quiet, unconditional support.