Chapter 418: On the Subway Train
The situation was becoming increasingly unfavorable. With a goal in hand, Millwall could completely withdraw and defend their half of the field, and then they could make use of their brutal defense and home ground momentum to block the CIty team’s counterattacks and maintain the score of 1:0 to the end.
Well, it didn’t matter for Richard himself, as he had already given up on this match—it wasn’t worth it.
He had already instructed Marina, Miss Heysen, Karren, and Sadie to meet and join the staffs and Players. He had also briefed Rouse, the kit manager, and relayed all necessary instructions to them.
Outside The Den, the roar of the fans and the commentators could still be heard, so there weren’t many people around at the moment outside.
Once everyone had gathered, Richard scanned the room. "Is everyone ready?" he asked. "Where’s Martin?"
Mourinho let out a sigh. "That Millwall manager broke his nose. Dr. Schlumberger decided to send him to the hospital as soon as he was examined in the stand."
Richard was momentarily speechless, but he nodded nonetheless. "Alright. Now we need to hurry. Let’s go—directly to Liverpool."
The staff and players froze, stunned by his announcement.
Richard’s expression hardened. "Yes, you heard me right. We’re going straight to Liverpool. No one can guarantee that what happened on the road won’t happen again. Don’t worry—your driver has already been sent to Manchester with the bus for repairs. All you need to do is follow my arrangement."
"..."
"Don’t worry," Richard smiled. "Everything will be covered by the club. For the next three days, just focus on the League Cup second leg—prepare yourself and do your best." He paused, looking at them seriously. "I’ll make sure the hotel is five-star, so make sure to get plenty of rest."
He then turned to Marina, Karren, Miss Heysen, and Sadie. Since they were women, they would receive special arrangements. The four of them would return to Manchester by taxi for safety.
"I will join the team. We’re going straight to Liverpool. No need to worry—I know what to do," Richard said, nodding toward his bodyguard.
South Bermondsey Station.
As a Londoner, Richard knew the area like the back of his hand. The walk from the station to the stadium, the tiny cafés and pubs along the way, even the spots where the local fans liked to gather before matches—all of it was second nature to him.
Thankfully, it was only a 5–7 minute walk. You just needed to follow the path along Rotherhithe New Road and Surrey Canal Road to reach the station.
SWISH~
A subway train accelerated and departed from the platform. The loud, blasting noises reverberated through the tunnels, gradually fading into the distance. The platform once again fell into the quiet that had previously settled over it.
It was the last carriage, and there weren’t many people inside. Before the players boarded, there was only an elderly couple with a child. Once the players got on, they were able to find a row of empty seats together. Mourinho made sure they all sat in the same row, just in case.
Richard stood in the aisle, holding onto the handrail. Since he was the only one familiar with the area, he and his bodyguard remained vigilant.
He had specifically chosen a carriage that appeared nearly empty. Although the players were not wearing City away jerseys and had no visible Manchester City logos, he was still concerned. After all, football stars like Ronaldo, Zidane, and Makélélé, who appeared frequently in newspapers and on television, were on the team. There was no telling whether they might be recognized. They were currently on the turf of Millwall fans, and Richard did not want to create unnecessary trouble before the match.
The elderly couple kept glancing in their direction, as if trying to identify them. However, Richard was unconcerned. Even if they were hardcore Millwall supporters, they posed no real threat.
Earlier, Richard had warned the players not to speak on the train, to keep their eyes closed, and to pretend they were asleep. Those who were more easily recognizable were instructed to straighten their collars, bury their heads, or block their faces with newspapers. In any case, no accidents were to happen.
Richard lowered his head and checked his watch. It was currently 4:39 p.m., and they were scheduled to reach their next stop at 6:49 p.m.
After leaving South Bermondsey Station, they would need to make their way to central London before boarding a direct train to Liverpool Lime Street.
What made Richard feel lucky was that the stadium exit connected directly to a pedestrian walkway leading to the train station. It was only about 500 meters away—not far at all. Even luckier for him, thanks to his quick decision, the road that should have been extremely crowded was now nearly empty, with only a few hawkers and scattered football fans remaining. As a result, they were able to walk almost without any interruption.
"...Arriving at the next stop, Watford Junction, in 10 minutes. Arriving at the next stop, Watford Junction, in 10 minutes." An electronic voice announcing the next stop echoed through the train carriage.
Richard looked at the players seated on both sides of the carriage. Although they appeared to be following his instructions, he could tell they were still subtly surveying their surroundings. Less famous players, like backup goalkeeper Paul Robinson, even looked around casually, as if everything were completely normal.
It was clear that the players were still somewhat excited by this unusual method of travel. They didn’t have to worry about tactics, arrangements, or whether they had enough time. All of those concerns rested squarely on the shoulders of the managerial team.
"What’s the matter? Shhh! I can’t talk much right now."
Suddenly, he heard a whisper that made him turn toward the source of the voice.
"I know you were told to stay quiet, but will it kill you to take a little time?" the whisper said.
It wasn’t the clipped, professional tone one would expect from a manager to a player. Mourinho’s hand was already moving, his palm sweeping toward the two figures sitting off to the side. ’Here. Come closer.
Ronaldo hesitated, his gaze flicking toward Richard for reassurance. Richard gave a small, steady nod. Only then did Ronaldo obey.
From where he stood, the other staff remained oblivious to what was happening. Only the elder and the child lingered nearby, their eyes shining with a mixture of awe and nervous anticipation. The old man dipped his head toward Ronaldo—a gesture as simple and earnest as a prayer.
Mourinho turned to the two figures. "Do you have a pen?"
"Ah..." Richard finally realized.
At first, he thought it was nothing—just a fan asking for a signature. But only after watching for a while did he truly understand. The elder and the boy weren’t stragglers at all—they were fans, City supporters who had ignored the early warnings to leave.
The boy dug into his backpack and proudly produced a thick autograph marker, the kind every devoted supporter carried as if it were a talisman. Mourinho accepted it, pressed it into Ronaldo’s hand, and gently tugged the boy closer. He smoothed out the wrinkles in the child’s shirt with surprising care.
The fabric glowed under the floodlights: Manchester City sky blue, with Ronaldo 7 stamped boldly across the back.
"Give him your autograph," Mourinho said. His voice wasn’t sharp, wasn’t commanding. It was soft, almost pleading—a father asking his son to show kindness.
Ronaldo stared at the pen in his hand, then at the boy. The child’s wide eyes trembled with hope, his small fists clenched tight as if holding back a storm. For a heartbeat, the noise of rivalry, the pressure of fame, the weight of the badge—all of it dissolved.
He crouched down, uncapped the marker, and signed. The sound of the tip scratching across fabric was faint, but to the boy it might as well have been thunder.
The child’s face lit up instantly, joy so pure it seemed to banish the tension from the air. He lowered his head to look at the name on his shirt, then turned toward the elder—who was actually his grandfather—and spoke, "Ronaldo! Grandpa, look!" he shouted, voice trembling with excitement.
The old man’s eyes softened. He placed a weathered hand on the boy’s head and said gently, "If you like it so much, you must treasure it."
Mourinho chuckled, adding with a playful grin, "That’s right! Treasure it well. This is Ronaldo’s autograph—you could sell it for a fortune someday."
The boy puffed out his cheeks and shot Mourinho a defiant look. "I’ll never sell this jersey! Not even if I don’t have money to buy Manchester City’s new kit!"
His voice carried such conviction that even Mourinho blinked, then burst out laughing. "Hear that, Ronaldo? You’ve got yourself a number-one loyal fan right here."
Ronaldo, caught off guard, coughed into his hand to cover his reaction—but the small, unguarded smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. For all his composure, the boy’s declaration had reached him, warming him in a way goals and trophies never could.
The elder placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, steady and proud, as though this single signature had sealed a memory for life.
Ronaldo straightened slowly, pen still in hand, and for the briefest moment he felt lighter—like the act had stitched something small but important back together. Mourinho’s eyes met his, carrying no words, only quiet approval.