On the day of the England-Argentina clash, the nation was left in stunned silence as England suffered a 1-2 defeat, ending their World Cup campaign.
First, they were in shock of Maradona's miraculous solo goal, then outraged by the infamous "Hand of God" goal, which sparked vehent criticism and controversy.
Back ho, Richard found his father and brother sitting in the kitchen, drinking in complete silence, their dejection palpable.
As Richard was about to head to his room, his mother whistled softly to get his attention.
"Shh."
He stopped, looking at her curiously. "What's wrong, Mom?" he asked.
His mother lowered her voice to a whisper. "Are you hungry? How about your studies?"
Richard gave her a puzzled look before whispering back, "Why are we whispering? What's going on?"
She gestured toward his father and brother. "Don't you see them? Don't ntion it now. Anyway, how's your vocational school?"
What vocational school? Richard hesitated.
There was no way he could tell her that instead of searching for school and attending classes, he had been betting on the World Cup and buying up houses in the neighborhood.
In the end, he simply replied, "It's fine, Mom."
His mother sighed in relief. "That's good, that's good. Use your money wisely, alright? Education cos first—this is for your future."
Richard forced a smile and nodded. "I understand, Mom."
He facepald internally, knowing he had no choice but to obediently go along with her expectations.
The next day unfolded like any other. Richard placed his bets—this ti on Argentina and West Germany.
Across the counter, the bookmaker at William Hill smirked as he watched Richard hand over his money.
"Still playing it safe, kiddo?"
Richard's lips twitched at the way he was being addressed, but he chose to ignore it.
The bookmaker, on the other hand, was secretly pleased. Finally, he could teach this cocky young man a lesson. Richard had been on a winning streak for too long, and now, luck had turned against him.
Sure, his winnings from Argentina's victory still covered his losses, but at least there was no more unstoppable streak. Finally, the kid had lost so money.
After placing his bets, Richard continued his property search.
This ti, however, he wasn't looking at council-owned housing. Instead, he shifted his focus to privately owned properties—hos, buildings, warehouses—anything that had potential.
His first stop was a real estate agency. They went through the listings together, discussing pricing, locations, and potential renovations. If a property looked promising, Richard negotiated on the spot—pushing for a lower price or asking about seller flexibility.
He wasn't just after houses. If the agent ntioned a warehouse, an office space, or a rundown shop, Richard took interest.
As the eting went on, the agent's initial skepticism faded. He could tell Richard was serious, well-funded, and willing to move fast—a dream client in the property business.
Richard left the agency with a list of potential properties and a few appointnts to view them.
His plan was in motion.
Besides working with real estate agencies, Richard took a more direct approach—one that required a bit more boldness. He thickened his skin and began knocking on the doors of occupied hos, knowing that not every property for sale would be listed officially.
At first, his approach was t with suspicion and confusion.
"You want to buy my house?" one hoowner scoffed. "Not for sale, mate."
Another barely let him finish his sentence before shutting the door in his face.
Most people weren't looking to sell. That was until he ntioned the price.
Money had a way of changing minds.
When Richard made his offers, so hoowners paused. Others hesitated, glancing at their aging walls and leaking roofs, suddenly reconsidering.
One man, an older gentleman with a cigarette in one hand and a skeptical expression, leaned against his doorfra.
"You're serious?" he asked, exhaling smoke.
Richard nodded, his voice steady. "Cash offer. No delays. You na your price, we negotiate, and I'll make it happen."
The man scratched his chin, considering. He wasn't planning to sell—but now, he was tempted.
One by one, Richard closed the deals. So required persuasion, so tough negotiation, and others simply needed ti to make up their minds.
By the ti the World Cup ended, his efforts had paid off. He had convinced hoowners, real estate agents, and property owners alike.
The agreents were signed—all that was left was to finalize the paynts. Houses, offices, warehouses, land, rundown shops—everything was secured. Now, it was just a matter of paying up.
The day had finally arrived.
With the finalists now decided, there was no need for further deliberation—he would continue to bet on Argentina.
Richard's total winnings currently stood at £1,226,333.
France's stunning victory over Brazil—at odds as high as 10:3—had brought him a massive windfall. However, that amount had yet to be reduced by taxes and his concealed bet. As a result, the actual sum he could wager on Argentina was £1,005,963.
Everything had played out just as he had hoped.
The familiar jingle of the doorbell rang as Richard stepped inside. Behind the counter, the bookmaker glanced up—and imdiately did a double take. His eyes widened before a slow grin spread across his face.
"Oh, you're back again, kid?" He leaned forward on the counter, sizing Richard up.
"Yes," Richard replied calmly, sliding a thick envelope across the counter. "All in."
For a mont, the bookmaker just stared. Then, as realization dawned, he straightened up so fast his chair nearly tipped over. Clapping his hands together in sheer delight, he looked as if he might actually try to kiss the person in front of him. This kid was a goldmine.
"How much this ti?" the bookmaker asked, rubbing his hands eagerly.
Richard crossed his arms. "What are the odds?"
"1:1," the bookmaker replied. "But if you want to make things more interesting, we can offer double odds. Interested?"
Richard raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How does that work?"
"Glad you asked!" The bookmaker grinned. "If you can predict specific details—like who will score, the exact number of goals, or the score at halfti or full-ti—we'll boost your odds. Here, take a look."
He slid a laminated brochure across the counter. Richard picked it up, scanning the fine print.
"So, say I bet on Argentina to win with a score of two, my odds will be doubled?"
"Exactly!" The bookmaker nodded eagerly. "You have my word."
Richard tapped his fingers against the counter, thinking. "What if I predict Argentina will score three goals?"
"Three goals without conceding?"
"Are you insane? Three goals without reply?" Richard quickly waved his hands. "No, no, no. Just three goals—for Argentina."
"Hmm." The bookmaker scrunched up his face like he'd just bitten into a lemon—thoughtful, yet every now and then, his eyes peeked toward Richard, as if waiting for sothing.
Only then did Richard realize—this guy was just putting on a show. They had already given him the double bet benefit, so now the question was: 'What was he going to give them in return?'
Richard bent slightly and uttered in hushed tones, "A million."
"Deal!"
And just like that, the wager was locked in. But there was one more thing. A little favor.
As one of their most loyal bettors—soone who had stuck with William Hall from the start of the tournant all the way to the final—they wanted an interview.
Mirror Sport and The Sun, William Hall's dia partners for the World Cup, had requested an exclusive.
Richard scoffed. "If my mother finds out I used my retirent fund to bet, she'll beat senseless at ho. So, what's your deal?"
'Sorry, Mother,' Richard quickly muttered in his heart.
The bookmaker was montarily speechless. Then, after a beat, he gave Richard a long, calculating look. Annoying as this kid was, his bets often went against the grain. And that was exactly what made him interesting.
Most high-rollers played it safe, sticking to the favorites, hedging their bets with predictable patterns. But this guy? He had a knack for spotting dark horses before the odds swung in their favor. That kind of gambler—they made headlines. And headlines were good for business.
According to the analysts, if they looked at the timing, about four percent of bettors placed their wagers after this kid walked in. A small number, sure—but considering this was only his first major bet, it was worth paying attention to.
After weighing the pros and cons, the bookmaker finally said, "How about becoming our VIP?"
"VIP?" Now this was interesting. "What's in it for ?"
"Better odds, exclusive bets, priority withdrawals. And of course, special invitations to high-roller events. Plus, for those who prefer not to cash out their winnings, we offer luxury item exchanges—watches, cars, vacations, you na it."
Richard leaned back, pretending to consider it. In truth, the offer was tempting. But after a mont, doubt crept in.
"Do I have to pay a monthly fee?"
"Not exactly a monthly fee, but there's a quota to et, which ans you need to place a certain number of bets to maintain your status," the bookmaker admitted.
Richard sighed, disappointed. But at the sa ti, he didn't want to miss out on this opportunity. After a brief pause, he gathered his courage and said, "Don't you know ? I'm an ex-footballer. Can I get special perks?"
He felt a little embarrassed saying it out loud, but what he didn't expect was for the bookmaker to freeze.
"Pardon ?"
Richard cleared his throat. "I said, I'm an ex-footballer. Can I get special perks?"
The bookmaker squinted at him. "You're an ex-footballer? What, did you retire early or sothing?"
"Yeah. Maddox. Richard Maddox. Ring any bells?"
Sothing clicked in the bookmaker's mind. Suddenly, it all made sense. No wonder people in the room kept sneaking glances at this kid. He had assud it was because they were curious about his betting habits, but now?
No wonder. No wonder.
Richard Maddox. He had heard the na before. A rising star—until he disappeared from the public eye over a year ago. Now, it was all starting to co together.
"Please wait a mont."
After waiting for a minute or two, the bookmaker returned. This ti, he stepped forward and shook Richard's hand enthusiastically.
"Sir, welco to our VIP program. My na is Fay Loan, and I am your dedicated personal manager."
"Oh, so it worked?" Richard was elated.
"Yes, sir. I already spoke with my direct supervisor and the higher-ups. Most of them are in favor of it and are also eager to see how this works out."
"Just call Richard," he said, waving his hand dismissively. Then, still unsure, he asked again, "But do I need to keep betting every month?"
Understanding his concern, Fay explained, "So, Mr. Richard, here's the deal. Our agreent only requires you to et your quota during major football tournants—like the World Cup, the Euros, or the First Division. You just need to place a bet, and that's it. Simple, right?"
"Is there a minimum bet amount?"
"One hundred thousand dollars minimum. But given how much you've won already, that shouldn't be a problem, right?"
Richard exhaled deeply. A hundred thousand dollars? That was a big number, but considering his current performance... it wasn't actually that bad.
"Mr. Fay, thank you for your help." Richard quickly shook his hand in appreciation.
"Hahaha, that's okay, that's okay! It's my job." Fay grinned.
Technically, his rank wasn't high enough to be a dedicated personal manager. However, thanks to his smooth talking—and the fact that he was the one who discovered Richard and convinced him—he had managed to persuade the higher-ups to approve his request.
Now, Fay couldn't help but dream. Maybe one day, he'd replace his direct supervisor—or even the current head of this William Hall branch.
"Alright then, Mr. Richard, shall we proceed with the bet on Argentina? One million?"
"Yeah, please," Richard said with a nod.
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