Chapter 292: Gold Digger

On the night after the party, as usual, the coaching staff gathered for their traditional "Beer Night"—a casual evening of drinks and conversation.

Originally, a few players joined in—Ronaldo, Ferdinand, McNamara, Lennon, and Savage—but with Boxing Day fixtures looming, their glasses were limited. The squad had been given strict instructions regarding alcohol and discipline.

In the hotel’s recreation room, Robertson, Walford (coach), and Genoe (GK coach) played pool, while Richard, O’Neill, and Domènec Torrent—the current City youth head—sat at the bar, nursing drinks and swapping stories.

"How’s the current U-17 squad?" Richard asked as he sipped his orange juice. "Anyone you’d recommend?"

City’s youth setup had quietly become a breeding ground for emerging talent—names like John Terry, Jonathan Woodgate, Ashley Cole, Joe Cole, and their newest gem: Samuel Eto’o. Even senior players like Pirlo, Lampard, and Capdevila occasionally joined youth sessions to sharpen technique or scout upcoming talent.

Though some of these players looked ready for a higher level, youth league participation remained essential. Throwing a teenager straight into the Premier League’s physical grind without enough preparation could damage their development—especially for international youngsters adjusting to English football.

Rather than have them warm the bench, O’Neill had floated the idea of a special exception for three standout prospects, Pirlo, Lampard, and Capdevila. After all, they had just turned 18—barely men, but full of fire.

The key, he emphasized, was patience. No need to rush them into permanent roles.

Just like forty years ago, when Manchester United’s reserve side earned the nickname "Busby Babes," there were now whispers stirring around City’s training ground. But this time, it wasn’t the red half of Manchester drawing attention—it was the blue.

Torrent arrived a bit late, having been held up with his squad. He gave Richard and O’Neill a nod, then smiled and said, "If our youth team keeps shining like this, clubs will start poaching them."

O’Neill chuckled and shot back, "I heard there are already scouts watching every home game."

Torrent cracked open a bottle of beer and took a sip. "It’s not just local scouts. Jimmy told me he saw two or three guys taking notes throughout the last match. When he noticed them scribbling things every five minutes, he knew they weren’t parents—they were scouts. Probably eyeing that Samuel kid."

16-year-old Samuel Eto’o, who scored 17 goals in 14 matches for City’s U-17s.

Richard’s eyes narrowed. "Why wasn’t I informed about this? And... which clubs?"

If other teams are sending scouts to watch games at Maine Road, it’s unavoidable—City’s U-17s have become the center of attention.

But who could blame them?

Just by looking at the defense alone—Wes Brown (RB), John Terry, Jonathan Woodgate, and Ashley Cole (LB)—they’ve only conceded 2 goals in 14 fixtures so far this season in the youth league.

"No worries," O’Neill said with a slight smile. "From what I’ve heard, those scouts don’t represent any of the big boys. Thank God. In this self-important football world, the giants still tend to look down on ’little fish’ like us."

Richard nodded slowly, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. Between the hectic first-team schedule and the ongoing stadium redevelopment talks, he’d almost completely lost track of the youth squad’s progress.

The Premier League was still maturing, and English clubs hadn’t made much impact in Europe. No English team had reached the Champions League quarter-finals in recent years. Continental football still looked down on England. Just weeks ago, Manchester United had lost 1–0 to Fenerbahçe in the group stage—a harsh reminder that European eyes hadn’t quite turned toward England yet.

And that gave Manchester City time. Time to build. Time to protect what was theirs.

After a warm dinner and an evening filled with talk—about life, football, and everything in between—Richard glanced at his watch and rose from his seat.

"Alright, that’s enough for me tonight," he said with a quiet sigh, rolling his shoulders.

Across the room, the players were still laughing, dancing, and letting loose on the dance floor. Richard watched them for a moment, a small smirk tugging at his lips. He didn’t need to say a word—he knew O’Neill and Robertson would keep an eye on things.

The party had done its job.

But Richard’s night wasn’t over. There were still a few reports to review, a stack of notes to finish, and a schedule that refused to wait. Rather than heading home, he decided to stay the night at the hotel—more out of convenience than comfort.

As always, out of habit, Richard checked his mailbox before entering his room. But just before he could open the door, someone called out behind him.

"Sir, wait a moment!"

Richard was startled by the sudden shout, but quickly composed himself when he saw it was a hotel staff member approaching.

"Sir, there’s a letter for you," the staff said, handing it over.

Richard glanced at the hotel employee, then down at the envelope in his hand, frowning slightly. Occasionally, he received letters from J.K. Rowling. Beyond their discussions about her

Harry Potter

draft, the two often exchanged personal notes like old-fashioned pen pals.

From their correspondence over the past months, Richard had noticed a distinct change in Rowling’s tone. She had begun to emerge from a place of sorrow and solitude, gradually finding light again. Her letters now brimmed with creativity and purpose, as if something deep within had finally begun to heal.

Her happiness was especially evident whenever she spoke of her daughter, Jessica—her milestones, her laughter, her growing curiosity about the world. It was clear that motherhood, more than anything, had become Rowling’s anchor and source of joy.

’But I was staying at the hotel tonight—how did she know to send a letter here?’

Still, out of respect for the writer and curiosity, Richard accepted the letter with a quiet nod.

Richard was always thrilled by anything related to

Harry Potter

, especially knowing he’d be among the first to read it. It was an honor for him to dive into such a legendary tale. So, he took the letter with a polite nod and thanked the hotel staff before heading into his room.

Once inside, Richard immediately opened the envelope, ready to indulge himself in a bit of fantasy. But as he unfolded the contents, his cheerful mood vanished in an instant.

The envelope bore no postmark, no sender or recipient address—clearly, someone had simply tipped off the staff to ensure the letter reached his hands.

Richard sat down on the couch, his expression flat.

Inside were seven or eight photographs, which he set aside for a moment before reading the message on the paper. After a few seconds, he let out a dry chuckle of resignation.

It was a love letter—expressing admiration, infatuation, and just enough ambiguity to keep things mysterious. The enclosed photos were provocatively bold, showing a young woman in nothing but her birthday suit. Her poses were carefully arranged to conceal certain areas, but the intent was unmistakable: sultry, seductive, and anything but subtle.

A gold digger.

Clicking his tongue, Richard flipped the page over and spotted a phone number scrawled near the bottom.

Picking up the landline, he dialed the number.

Before long, the call connected, and a cheerful female voice answered.

"Hello, who is this?"

"Miss Stephanie Will, is that you?"

"Yeah, who’s this?"

"This is Richard Maddox."

"Maddox... Richard... Oh, it’s

you!

Have I finally won you over? Richard, I’ve been waiting for your call for

over a month!

"

Richard’s mouth twitched at the sound of her voice.

"Skip the chit-chat, let’s cut to the chase. How much for a night?"

"..."

"Not interested? Alright, then I misunderstood. Please don’t bother me again, thanks."

"Wait, two thousand pounds."

"Two thousand? You’re expensive."

"I guarantee it’s worth it."

"Alright, I’ll make it twenty thousand for you tonight! Do you know the Chorlton Hotel? I’ll go book a room now. One hour from now, and I’ll have the staff guide you."

"Twenty thousand... Okay, okay, see you tonight!"

Her tone was increasingly excited as they spoke, and after hanging up, Richard pressed the record button on the nearby tape recorder to stop it, pulling out the tape and placing it in a drawer.

Thankfully, for tonight, he had booked an Executive Suite, which provided a discreet call-recording feature connected to a private switchboard.

After thinking for a moment, Richard picked up the phone and dialed Ric Turner—the owner of the

Bluemoon MCFC

fan website.

It was just before ten. The bar Turner ran hadn’t hit peak chaos yet, so he answered quickly.

CLICK.

"Ric?"

"Richard! What’s up?"

"I remember you haven’t gotten married yet, have you?"

There was a beat of silence.

"...That’s correct. Why?"

"I need ten men—and your help. Come to my room tonight at the Chorlton Hotel."

PFFFFFT!

On the other end, Turner

visibly

choked—spitting out whatever he’d just sipped.

"Jesus, mate—warn me before dropping something like that! Ten men?! What kind of party is this?!"

Richard didn’t flinch. "Not

that

kind of party. I need trustworthy lads. No questions asked. One hour."

Turner wheezed. "Well, I’ve got half of Moss Side in my contacts, but now I’m scared to dial them. You want muscle or charm?"

"Why do you have so many questions? Both," Richard said flatly. "And sober."

There was a long, deafening silence.

Finally, Turner gathered enough courage to speak.

"R–Richard, l–listen... I, uh... I know a gay bar not too far from here."

Only then did Richard realize why Turner had been acting so weirdly the whole time.

"What are you thinking?" Richard snapped. "The ten men aren’t for me—they’re for

her

."

"Her?"

After Richard gave a brief (and very necessary) explanation, Turner finally understood.

"...Oh," he said, voice still a little shaken. "Well. That makes a

lot

more sense."