Chapter 67: Watch Out for Robben!
Bloomsbury, London – Royal Mail Headquarters.
It was early morning, and the much-maligned CEO of Royal Mail—the man cursed by hundreds of thousands of employees—was sitting in his office, staring out the window at the Crowne Plaza hotel across the street.
Coincidentally, the hotel had just opened when he took over the job.
He'd stayed there. It was a great place.
Especially the Executive King Room.
That bed really is huge.
Now, who was I with last time…?
Just as Adam Crozier was getting lost in hazy, slightly inappropriate nostalgia, a knock came at the door.
His secretary, dressed sharply in her tailored office attire, entered with a warm smile.
"Adam, a letter for you."
She bent forward to place the envelope on his desk—making sure to arch her back just so.
But to her disappointment, her handsome boss wasn't even looking at her.
He was still staring thoughtfully out the window, brows furrowed in that classic, charismatic, thinking-about-the-fate-of-the-nation kind of way.
He's been under so much pressure lately… Poor thing.
But a serious man really is attractive.
Especially one who runs a corporation with over a hundred thousand employees.
Adam Crozier didn't move until the door closed behind her. Then he let out a long, heavy sigh.
Bloody hell…
Whose brilliant idea was it to assign me that secretary?
This is entrapment!
Sure, he liked beautiful women, but he wasn't without principles.
In fact, no matter where he went, he stuck to one rule:
Don't dip the pen in company ink.
It's just asking for trouble.
Take last year, for example. His successor at the FA went down in flames—because of a woman.
Men having fun is normal. Otherwise, what's the point of making all that money?
But how you have fun—and who you have fun with—matters.
Otherwise, you're just a fool.
Crozier walked over to his desk and opened the envelope.
Inside was a card—and a match ticket.
An invitation from Yang Cheng.
And the ticket?
The League Cup Final.
Crozier smiled.
"Didn't think they'd actually make it."
He had to admit, Yang Cheng and Bayswater Chinese had earned his respect.
A Championship side in the League Cup Final, facing Chelsea—most likely bound for next season's UEFA Cup.
That meant a big payday.
And if they played their cards right...
Crozier shook his head.
He hadn't yet accepted Yang Cheng's job offer.
He wasn't crazy.
But then he looked again at the envelope and saw the postmark.
His smile vanished.
The final would be held on February 27th, in Cardiff's Millennium Stadium.
Yang Cheng had mailed the invitation on February 10th.
From Hyde Park to Bloomsbury—no more than five kilometers, straight-line distance.
Even on foot, it could've been there in a morning.
This was central London, with the Underground and every possible transport option.
And yet it took 15 days to arrive.
And Crozier?
He was the CEO of Royal Mail.
If a company like this doesn't go bankrupt, what kind of company will?
Crozier was about to lose it.
Five kilometers, fifteen days.
It made him want to kill someone.
He wanted to drag every person who told him he shouldn't lay people off and make them see this.
Don't cut staff?
Let them keep their cozy government jobs?
They deserve to go down.
…
Cardiff, Wales – Marina Pier.
Neither Pini Zahavi nor Kia Joorabchian could truly be called super-rich.
So they didn't understand how the super-rich thought.
Just like they couldn't understand why Abramovich chose to sail to Cardiff on his yacht instead of driving from London.
Do you have any idea how far that is?
Down the Thames, out to sea, through the Dover Strait between Britain and France, around the entire southern coast of England, then north again through the Bristol Channel—finally reaching Cardiff from the south.
Absolutely insane.
But the Russian billionaire?
He wasn't crazy. He was loving it.
Especially when he saw people on the docks below pointing at his yacht.
He grinned with pride.
That's what we call emotional value.
"How's the team looking?"
Abramovich finally turned his gaze back and addressed Peter Kenyon, formerly of Manchester United, now Chelsea's CEO.
"I spoke to Mourinho," Kenyon replied. "All is well. No injuries. Full squad available."
That pleased Abramovich.
He had issued instructions a month ago:
"Lose to anyone—but not to Bayswater Chinese."
That amateur team?
He was going to buy them eventually.
Lose to them now? Embarrassing.
Although just a few days ago, Chelsea had lost 2–1 to Barcelona in the Champions League Round of 16 first leg—he hadn't even blinked.
"I still can't believe that rich kid really brought that team all the way here," Abramovich mused.
He was genuinely impressed.
When he first set eyes on Bayswater Chinese, they were a failing League Two side, teetering on bankruptcy.
Now, less than two years later, they were top of the Championship—and in a cup final.
"That kid's got something," Kenyon offered.
Abramovich's expression darkened slightly.
Pini Zahavi noticed and laughed.
"But everyone says it's all thanks to Brian Kidd."
"That kid doesn't even have a coaching license yet."
The room chuckled.
Exactly.
David Davies had even been asked about it by the press recently.
What if—just what if—Bayswater Chinese actually won the League Cup?
Then what would Yang Cheng be considered?
Would he be the first title-winning manager in history without a coaching license?
Of course, plenty of tabloids had been stirring the pot, claiming that Brian Kidd was the real manager, and Yang Cheng was just a showy rich kid who loved the spotlight.
But those inside the industry? They took that talk as nothing more than a running joke.
"I bet Yang Cheng's running out of cash again. That's why he sold Joe Hart to Everton for six million. Clearly, he's given up on winning the title," Abramovich sneered coldly.
A sentiment shared by many.
Because goalkeeper is a special position. You don't move one lightly—when you do, it shakes the entire defense.
Forget everything else. Just getting used to a new keeper takes time.
"Kia, anything from your sources?" Abramovich asked.
Kia Joorabchian glanced around. "According to what I've heard from the City—financially, they're doing okay this season, but a lot of clubs have started circling."
"Don't let that top-of-the-table standing fool you. Getting promoted to the Premier League is a long road. If they fall short, that squad will fall apart. Plenty of teams are eyeing players like Kitson, Ribéry, and Huddlestone."
If the roster scattered, the club would lose its core competitiveness.
And then? Even if they had money, it wouldn't matter.
That new training complex? A bottomless pit.
If the team's performance falters while they're bleeding money into construction—it's only a matter of time before they collapse.
"Trying to wear a crown two sizes too big… He's just too young," Abramovich laughed.
He'd be thrilled if Bayswater Chinese went bankrupt tomorrow.
He'd love nothing more than to swoop in and take over the wreckage.
"Tell Mourinho and the entire squad: this will be the first trophy of my Chelsea era!"
"And after the League Cup Final, I'll host a celebration party aboard the Ecstasea. Every one of them will be rewarded!"
…
Millennium Stadium, Cardiff.
Back inside the visitors' dressing room, Yang Cheng stood before his team, giving one final, fiery speech.
"Some say the League Cup is worthless…"
"But I'm telling you—this trophy means more to us than anyone can imagine!"
"If today, here at the Millennium Stadium, we lift that trophy—we will become legends."
"We will become something no one has ever seen in English football."
The room, already solemn, grew heavier with every word.
Every player's eyes were filled with burning focus.
Yang Cheng had been feeding them this belief for weeks.
"If we can win today, nothing can stop us!"
"We'll storm out of the Championship and into the Premier League!"
"And each one of you—my players—you'll be remembered in history for this match!"
"Your names will be etched into English football history!"
The players felt it.
They were young. Reckless. Fearless.
They weren't afraid—not even of mighty Chelsea.
"Everyone out there—media, fans, the bookies—they don't believe in us. Even the FA said we were in trouble."
"But I've never believed that."
"Because we are not just any team—we are something special."
"To me, every one of you sitting here is just as good as Chelsea's players."
"In fact…"
"You're better!"
"We're just young, that's all!"
Yang Cheng shouted it, full of confidence and conviction.
And deep down?
He meant it.
His players weren't inferior to Chelsea's—not in raw talent.
Maybe not today.
But that didn't matter. He had to say it—they needed to hear it.
"Believe in me, just like you always have."
"I promise you—I will lead you into battle, and together, we will lift this trophy!"
"But I need you to fight like warriors—fearless and relentless—for 90 minutes!"
By now, Yang Cheng's eyes were red.
And every player?
Ready to explode.
This was it.
A national final.
Their blood was boiling, and deep within, something primal stirred.
Victory.
Only victory.
"And one last thing," Yang Cheng said, raising his voice above the roar.
"Let your passion burn—but keep your heads cool."
"The bigger the game, the more important it is to stay calm."
"And finally… I want to congratulate you ahead of time—because no matter what happens, in my heart and in the heart of Bayswater Chinese—you are already the best!"
With that, he clapped hard.
The players jumped from their seats, huddled into a circle, arms over shoulders, heads together.
All seventeen, plus their manager, shouted three times:
"Let's go!"
"Let's go!"
"Let's go!"
Then Yang Cheng stood by the locker room door, hugging each one as they walked out.
When Piszczek came up, Yang Cheng hugged him and whispered:
"Watch out for Robben!"
"Got it, boss."
When it was Neuer's turn, Yang Cheng clapped his hand and pulled him into a tight embrace.
"Don't worry, Manuel. I believe in you. Just go out there and be yourself."
"You've always wanted the world to notice you, right?"
"Well, today's your chance."
Neuer nodded hard.
Thank you for the support, friends. If you want to read more chapters in advance, go to my Patreon.
Read 20 Chapters In Advance: patreon.com/Canserbero10