East stand of Old Trafford was filled with laughter and cheers as City supporters sang joyfully from the stands. With only three minutes of stoppage ti remaining, the match was nearing its end—the final Manchester derby of the season was about to be written into history.
In the first half of the league season, City had won the derby.
In the second half, United had struck back.
In the FA Cup, United had triumphed once again.
But now, under the bright lights of the League Cup, it was City’s turn.
And this ti, there was no debate.
City dominated the match, their control absolute, their intent ruthless. The scoreboard told the story clearly: this was not just a victory—it was a statent.
Manchester City seized their chances in the final minutes of the ga, while Manchester United threw everything forward in attack—yet all their effort ended in frustration. This was the kind of mont that made Richard nervous.
He couldn’t help glancing again and again toward the United technical area, where Ferguson stood motionless, eyes fixed on his watch, as if ti itself were sothing he could still command.
Fergie Ti!
Who in football didn’t know that myth?
Extra minutes that stretched longer than they should. Late goals that arrived like fate rather than coincidence. Matches that refused to end until United had their mont.
The clock kept ticking.
United crossed. City cleared. United pressed again—but the blue shirts held their line, disciplined and unyielding.
’Not this ti,’ he thought suddenly
Tonight, ti belonged to City.
Dwight Yorke, leading the line, cleverly feinted a pass and completely fooled Thuram. In an instant, he surged toward goal, sending Thuram stumbling behind him. Realizing he was no longer being chased, Yorke slowed his stride, clearly trying to maximize his chances for the shot.
Paul Robinson mirrored his movent, stepping forward cautiously to close the angle, always alert to the possibility of a lob.
Richard was already on his feet, bracing himself for the final whistle. When he saw Yorke hesitate instead of shooting—perhaps imagining a miracle United coback—his tension only grew. Thankfully, sust as Yorke finally committed to the strike, a sudden touch ca from behind, poking the ball away and straight into Paul Robinson’s hands.
Ronaldinho!
"Ahhh—"
A collective sigh swept through Old Trafford as fans shook their heads in disbelief.
’You’re overthinking it! Just take the shot! Even if you miss, it doesn’t matter!’
Yorke dropped to one knee and turned, stunned. It wasn’t Makelele or Cannavaro who had dispossessed him—but the last player anyone expected: Ronaldinho.
The other Manchester United players had already given up. Even Yorke, the closest to goal, stood frozen, staring blankly at the net he had just failed to test.
On the touchline, Mourinho clapped his hands, directing his applause toward Ronaldinho’s tackle. He then glanced at the referee—and when the whistle stayed silent, he let out a long sigh of relief.
No penalty!
Manchester City succeeded in defeating Manchester United without conceding a single goal.
Three–nil!
When Paul Robinson sent a long clearance upfield, PHWEEE! the referee blew the full-ti whistle.
Finally... they could have their revenge on Jonathan Woodgate.
"Good. For the rest of it... let’s focus on the Premier League," Richard calculated as he thought about the current table.
Manchester United — 60 points
Chelsea — 59 points
Aston Villa — 57 points
Manchester City — 56 points
Arsenal — 55 points
Liverpool — 51 points
The League Cup?
Whatever... What mattered was qualifying for the Champions League next season!
For the remainder of the Premier League fixtures, Manchester City’s tactical plan was straightforward: attack aggressively. The priority was to score first, because as long as they secured an early lead, their path toward the title would beco much clearer.
Richard also harbored a personal ambition.
The Premier League race remained extrely tight; the gap between the top six teams was narrow, making a dramatic last-minute turnaround entirely possible.
Manchester United, anwhile, were forced to juggle three competitions, while most of their rivals were involved in at most two. Manchester City, for example, were balancing only the Premier League and the League Cup. After knocking Manchester United out of the League Cup, City found the freedom to surge forward, an advantage that allowed them to develop more consistently and maintain greater focus.
"Hahaha!"
Richard burst out laughing in his office, the sound echoing as he clicked his glass of orange juice lightly against the table in front of Mourinho and his coaching staff.
"Good job. Very good job," he said, patting José Mourinho on the shoulder.
Mourinho blinked, clearly confused by the sudden praise. Of course, no one else in the room knew what was truly on Richard’s mind.
The historic 1998-99 Manchester United treble. Yes, in the that season, the treble was supposed to belong to Manchester United. That much was written into football history. But history, Richard knew, was defined by very specific rules.
In football, a treble ant winning three major trophies in the sa season—but not all trebles were created equal.
First ca the classic, or continental treble—the most prestigious of all: the Champions League, then the dostic league title (whether the Premier League, Serie A, or another top division), and the main dostic cup, such as the FA Cup.
That was the treble that mattered. That was the treble people rembered.
The League Cup?
"Hahaha."
The thought alone made Richard laugh even harder.
It didn’t count.
Not here. Not in this treble.
And the more he thought about it, the more amused he beca.
With their attention shifting to the next Premier League fixture, Manchester City imdiately turned their focus to Everton. However, before City even took the pitch, Saturday’s matches reshaped the title race.
Chelsea were stunned by Blackburn Rovers.Arsenal, anwhile, secured a vital victory over Coventry City.
The landscape changed dramatically!
Chelsea’s defeat sent them sliding down into fourth place, tightening the race at the top and adding even more pressure to the remaining fixtures. What had once looked stable was suddenly volatile, and every result now carried enormous weight.
For City, the ssage was clear: the margin for error was gone.
Manchester United — 60 points (with one ga in hand)
Aston Villa — 60 points
Chelsea — 59 points
Arsenal — 58 points
Manchester City — 56 points (with one ga in hand)
Liverpool — 54 points
Naturally, Richard was in an unusually good mood as he looked at the table. The results had gone his way—not perfectly, but well enough. The standings were tight, brutally so, yet City were still alive in every sense that mattered.
One ga in hand.Montum.Control.
He had just lifted his glass of orange juice, ready to remind Mourinho about the cost of defeat in the remaining fixtures, when his phone rang.
The screen lit up with a familiar na.
Marina Granovskaia.
Richard hesitated for half a second before answering.
"Marina?"
"Richard—thank god you picked up," she said, her voice rushed and clipped.
Richard frowned imdiately. Marina never sounded like this unless sothing had gone wrong.
"What’s wrong?"
There was a brief pause on the line.
"Do you rember the two kids from Spain?" she asked. "The ones you said we had to bring to City at all costs?"
Richard’s expression changed instantly.
"Which one?" he asked.
He stood up as he spoke, placing his orange juice carefully on the table. Across the room, Mourinho and the rest of the staff noticed the movent. The atmosphere shifted. Sothing serious was happening.
Marina continued, "One of my scouts has already established contact with him."
Richard nodded slightly, even though she couldn’t see him.
"Good."
"But there’s a problem."
Richard closed his eyes for a mont.
"What kind of problem?"
There was no hesitation in her answer.
"He doesn’t want to co to Manchester City if the role we’re offering is as a goalkeeper."
Silence.
"...What?"
Richard stared at the wall in front of him, his eyes nearly popping out.
"He says he won’t move to City," Marina repeated calmly, "unless the offer is for an outfield position."
"... well, fuck."
The word slipped out before he could stop it. Richard exhaled sharply.
After a few monts of silence, he finally sat down, drumming his fingers against the table as his mind searched for a solution—one that revolved around the very player he was desperate to bring to City. His eyes swept across the room, over the table, the scattered reports, the databases open on nearby screens, before finally settling on André Villas-Boas.
Richard’s eyes lit up instantly.
He stood up at once and walked straight toward Villas-Boas, stopping right in front of him and gripping his shoulder firmly.
"You like to keep videos of players who perform in the top leagues, don’t you?" Richard asked.
"..."
The question alone was enough to stun the room.
Not just Villas-Boas—even Mourinho and the rest of the staff froze, unsure where this was going.
"W–what?" Villas-Boas stamred.
Richard tightened his grip slightly, his intensity unmistakable.
"Do you have match footage from Serie A and La Liga?" he demanded. "Just answer —yes or no."
"Y–yes," Villas-Boas replied quickly. "I do."
"Good," Richard said at once.
He released Villas-Boas and imdiately turned toward another mber of his staff.
"Ramm," he said, locking eyes with Ramm Mylvaganam, "do a favor."
The room leaned in, curiosity fully captured now.
Richard quickly explained what he needed. He wanted Villas-Boas and Raman to work together—to compile footage of a specific kind of footballer. A player whose style, intelligence, and interpretation of the ga had fundantally reshaped how modern football could be played.
About showing that kid a different way of seeing the pitch.
How the boy understood football. How he understood his own role.
Only after giving his instructions did Richard finally turn toward Mourinho and the rest of the coaching staff.
"And I expect you to sweep clean the next ten fixtures," he said calmly, his voice steady and deliberate. "Then the League Cup as well—if you can do it properly."
The room went quiet. Richard picked up a pen and a sheet of paper, writing sothing quickly but deliberately before folding it once.
"Take this."
Mourinho narrowed his eyes. "What is this, boss?" he asked skeptically.
"Just take it."
Mourinho hesitated. He didn’t like surprises. Still, he reached out and took the paper.
The mont his eyes landed on what was written, his breath hitched.
A bonus—and a massive one at that.
"Good luck," Richard said. "Whether you earn that bonus depends entirely on your ability."
’As for ...’
He paused, lifting his gaze toward the sky.
"...it’s ti to go to Spain and pick up my future little rlin myself."
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