Football Dynasty

That afternoon, Richard arrived at Maine Road a little later than usual. The atmosphere around the stadium was electric—buzzing with fire and anticipation.

FA Cup Semi-Final day.

And once again, the opponent was none other than Bryan Robson's Middlesbrough. A familiar rival.

But this time, things felt different.

This time, Manchester City welcomed them not with hesitation or nerves, but with a full heart—with pride, courage, and a burning desire to win. The squad, the fans, the entire city—everyone was locked in, ready to chase a piece of history.

As for Middlesbrough, their only remaining hopes this season lay in the FA Cup and League Cup. Despite reaching the finals of both domestic competitions, they were currently languishing in 19th place in the Premier League table—dangerously close to relegation.

Their situation had worsened after a controversial 3-point deduction for postponing a fixture against Blackburn Rovers, a decision that had sparked outrage among their fans and put even more pressure on Bryan Robson's side.

Just as Richard was about to step into the director's box—his foot barely touching the top step—

"GOOOAAALLLL!!"

The roar erupted like thunder, shaking the very bones of Maine Road.

The sudden wave of cheers swept over him, and for a second, Richard's heart skipped a beat. Instinctively, he froze mid-step, turning toward the pitch with wide eyes.

Which one?

He hadn't even reached the director's box yet—who had scored?

Then his gaze shifted to the scoreboard above the stands: 77th minute — Manchester City 2 – 0 Middlesbrough.

He let out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he ran a hand through his hair. The tension in his shoulders eased. His steps resumed—this time lighter, steadier. The usual nerves of a big-match occasion had loosened their grip.

The stadium was alive. Roaring. Hopeful.

Wembley was calling.

At this point, it was almost certain—Manchester City were on their way to the FA Cup Final. And waiting for them there? Leicester City. The Foxes had already sealed their place after brushing aside Wimbledon the day before.

The next fixture was Premier League matchday 35—an away game against Coventry City. But this time, Richard wouldn't be in the stands.

While City traveled to Highfield Road, Richard found himself seated in a boardroom instead—attending a critical agenda meeting with the Rover Group. Club matters called, but so did business.

The automotive world, too, was witnessing its own kind of fierce competition. Ford had just unveiled its latest contender in the UK's fast-growing compact coupé segment: the Puma.

Built on the same chassis as the Ka and Fiesta, the Puma wasn't just another model—it was a bold statement. Sleek, agile, and aimed squarely at a younger, style-conscious audience, it represented a new chapter for Ford. A calculated risk.

After the first meeting wrapped up, Richard quickly shifted his attention back to Manchester City—and he couldn't help but smirk when he saw the update:

Manchester City 1 – 0 Coventry. (Ronaldo 27')

Business could wait. That goal told him everything he needed to know—Ronaldo was still delivering.

For the second meeting, this time it was only for internal discussions between Rover Group and Maddox Auto. Richard met exclusively with Alan Mulally and Fay.

Despite modernization efforts, Rover failed to gain significant market share or achieve profitability—especially when competing against Japanese and European rivals.

The core issue was that the Rover Group had to support several legacy brands like Austin, Morris, Triumph, Wolseley, and MG, which were increasingly seen as outdated and uncompetitive.

As a result, even though models like the Rover 100 still sold, the company continued to bleed money in the end.

"Sold all of them?" Richard was taken aback, leaning slightly forward in his chair, eyebrows raised. The idea proposed by the two of them was completely unexpected.

Alan Mulally nodded calmly. "That's right. BMW is still looking to strengthen its presence in the UK market, and the Phoenix Consortium—led by John Towers, one of our former top executives—is already making a move."

Fay Loan chimed in, "They're proposing a full takeover of the heritage marques—Austin, Morris, Triumph, Wolseley, MG... the entire legacy portfolio."

Richard leaned back slowly, trying to process the weight of what he'd just heard. "But all of them?" he repeated, half to himself. "Gone in one swing?"

Alan Mulally then elaborated.

Selling to Phoenix was not just a financial decision—it was also a political and symbolic move, meant to soften the blow of a German company withdrawing from such a historic British brand.

Originally, Rover had been seen as "too British to die without a fight"—and Richard had managed to wrest the car brand from BMW's hands. Now, that same slogan carried through again, with hopes of restoring pride, stability, and long-term independence to a struggling domestic manufacturer.

Richard exhaled slowly, then shook his head—not in disagreement, but more as a gesture of acceptance. He looked down briefly at the table, lost in thought. A long pause followed.

Finally, he spoke.

"I'm leaving the full decision to you two," he said quietly, yet firmly. "You know the ground better than I do. And frankly... I'm betting on both of you."

After wrapping up the meetings, Richard shifted his focus fully back to Manchester City.

League Cup Semi-Finals: Manchester City vs Leicester City

In the dressing room, the air was thick with anticipation. The players sat in a semicircle, jerseys on, boots laced, sweat already glistening on their brows from warm-up. O'Neill stood at the center, voice sharp and focused.

"We planned for this," he barked, eyes scanning the room. "We know how they play—and we've exposed them. Now, we finish the job."

There was no need for theatrics. No screaming or dramatics. Just intent. Pure intent.

The players exchanged firm nods, jaws clenched. Ronaldo sat forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked in. Dunne cracked his knuckles. Wright-Phillips bounced lightly on his heels, barely able to sit still.

O'Neill clapped his hands once—loud, sharp, final.

"Let's go win this."

The room erupted in shouts and fist bumps as the players surged to their feet. And Richard, watching from the doorway, allowed himself a small smile. The energy was electric—raw, determined, united.

In the first half, City pushed forward relentlessly, probing for openings with crisp passes and clever movement. But Leicester held firm. Their defense was organized, compact, and unshaken. Every time City thought they had broken through, there was a foot, a block, or a fingertip save denying them.

The frustration started to creep in.

Then came the second half.

City emerged from the tunnel with a new fire. It was clear O'Neill's halftime talk had hit home. The tempo was faster, the passes sharper, the pressing more intense. Richard leaned forward in his seat in the director's box, barely blinking.

And then—it happened.

A slip in the Leicester midfield. A loose ball. Larsson pounced, charged forward like a lightning bolt, beat one, skipped past another, and curled the ball into the top corner.

GOAL.

The stadium exploded.

Richard raised his fist as the ball hit the back of the net. Watching the goal, he could already see it—blue skies above Wembley, a sea of cheering fans in sky blue, and the glint of silverware just within reach.

The dream was no longer distant.

It was becoming real.