Chapter 13: Hero to zero !

*** Join my Patreon for 25 Advance Chapters Link is Below. Remove space after http. https:// www.patreon.com/c/Virtuosso777?redirect=true The night was buzzing with excitement. It was only 6:00 PM, still a full hour and a half before kickoff, but The Hawthorns was already nearly packed. Fans had flooded into the stadium early, eager to grab a good seat, enjoy their pies, and hopefully witness something other than another footballing disaster. Some were humming chants, others were chatting loudly about the starting eleven, and many kept glancing up toward the VIP section of the stands. It wasn't often they had something to look forward to—so tonight, every small thing was worth paying attention to. A good number of fans were wearing fresh West Brom kits with "Howard 25" on the back—shirts that had only been released the day before. A few had even gone all out, holding up homemade signs with Howard's face plastered on them. One sign had the words "HOLY HOWARD" written in big block letters, another simply said "IN TIM WE TRUST," and one kid held a sign that said, "Please Save Us." The hope was clear. West Bromwich Albion had given their fans very little to cheer about in the first half of the season. The attack was weak, the midfield was scattered like spilled marbles, and the defence... well, calling it "tofu-like" would be generous. More like wet tissue paper. Each match felt like watching someone slowly reverse into a brick wall. After last week's absolute meltdown against Liverpool, where they lost by a scoreline fans were actively trying to forget, West Brom had tumbled into the relegation zone. That had been the final straw for many. Groans had turned into boos. Fans had begun openly chanting for changes. And—miraculously—the changes actually came. Ken Bates, the tight-fisted club owner who usually made Scrooge look generous, finally decided to open his wallet. Maybe it was panic. Maybe it was pressure. Or maybe he just realized how empty the executive box was getting. Either way, in just three short days since the winter transfer window opened, things had moved fast. The midfield and attacking line had been reinforced—nothing flashy, but solid—and more importantly, Tim Howard had been signed. A proper goalkeeper, with real presence, actual hands, and something resembling confidence. And to top it off, Bates also brought in Blackwell, freshly ousted from Leeds United, to take over as head coach. That last bit made a few fans groan, but most were willing to give him a clean slate. At least he wasn't the last guy. Now, with those moves made, fans were feeling something unfamiliar—hope. Not a lot of it, but just enough to keep them glued to their seats and unusually chatty. Up on the stadium's big screen, the camera occasionally panned to the VIP section, where Bates sat with a group of shareholders. They looked quite pleased with themselves. Bates, in particular, wore the smug grin of a man who had done the bare minimum and expected praise for it. But his expression told you all you needed to know—he believed tonight's match would go his way. And so did the shareholders. For the fans in the stands though, it wasn't about corporate smiles or financial decisions. It was about watching a proper game of football. And after the last few months, they were desperate to see something—anything—that didn't end in tears. Now they were here early, shirted up, with signs in hand and fingers crossed. Tim Howard had barely been in the squad for a week, but already, half the stadium was counting on him to keep the club afloat. No pressure, Tim. *** The locker room was quiet... too quiet. Blackwell stood in front of the squad's whiteboard, his arms crossed, his face twisted like he'd just bitten into a lemon. Across from him, Tim Howard sat on the bench with his head down, looking like a schoolboy who got caught copying homework off the class dunce. "Timothy," Blackwell's voice boomed, snapping the silence like a snapped hamstring. "Are you kidding me?" Howard didn't answer. He stared down at the floor, hoping it might swallow him whole. His hands rested awkwardly on his knees, his lips tightly sealed. He had no excuses—because frankly, there were none. He knew he'd messed up. Big time. See, last night, Howard had decided to celebrate his big-money move to West Brom the best way he knew how—by hitting up a bar with a few friends. One thing led to another, a couple of drinks turned into five or six, then someone suggested karaoke, and the next thing he knew, it was almost 3 a.m. and he was stumbling into his club-provided apartment with half a pizza in one hand and one shoe missing. When he showed up to the training ground that morning, it wasn't hard to tell something was off. The smell of cheap whiskey and garlic bread was still clinging to him like an invisible cloud. Blackwell raised an eyebrow, but with a match just hours away, he didn't want to stir the pot—yet. Instead, he let the players do a light warm-up session. Nothing fancy. A few short drills, some jogging, basic keep-ball. That's when it started. First, Howard fumbled a simple throw-in. Then he tripped over his own feet trying to collect a back pass. The final straw came when he went for a diving save in slow motion and faceplanted into the grass like a flopping salmon. Blackwell had seen enough. He told Howard to go cool off in the locker room and went back to barking orders. But deep down, a tiny voice in his head was already screaming, "What did I just sign up for?!" Ten minutes later, Blackwell stormed into the changing room like a man who just found out his dog ate the TV remote. He slammed the door shut behind him, spun around, and glared at Howard. "So?" Blackwell growled. "What happened?" Howard gave the worst possible answer: silence. "I'm waiting," Blackwell said, arms now flailing in a mix of confusion and rage. "You've been flawless all season. Now suddenly you're moving like you've got bricks tied to your ankles. You nervous or something?" Howard finally opened his mouth. "Yeah... maybe. First match after the transfer and all. Lot of pressure." Blackwell blinked. "Pressure? You joined Leeds in front of twenty thousand fans and saved three penalties in your debut. Don't feed me that." There was another long pause before Howard sighed and finally confessed. "Okay... I may have gone out last night. Just a bit." Blackwell's eye twitched. "Define 'a bit'." "I was home by three," Howard said, trying to smile. It didn't work. "Three?!" "In the morning." Blackwell looked like he'd just seen someone punch his nan. "Are you out of your mind?! We've got a match today!" "I know, I know. But it was just a few drinks." "Tim, you smelled like a pub when you walked in this morning. I thought someone was running a fish and chips stand in your locker." Howard winced. That was probably true. Blackwell paced in circles now, muttering under his breath. "Bates is gonna hang me from the scoreboard if you mess this up. He paid 15 million for you. Fifteen. Million. For a goalkeeper. You realize I could've bought two midfielders, a right-back, and a new bus for that price?" Howard tried again, "Boss, I swear I'll be fine. I'm still in form. Just give me one hour. I'll adjust." "Adjust?!" Blackwell turned back around, arms flailing again. "This isn't flipping a light switch, Tim! You're not a microwave!" But then Howard, ever the cool head, put on his best puppy-dog eyes. "C'mon. You know me. I've been clean sheet after clean sheet since October. You think I'm gonna let Spurs be the team that ruins that?" Blackwell stared at him, squinting. His mind was racing. On one hand, he really, really didn't want to risk it. On the other, it was either put Howard in goal or start the backup, who once dove the wrong way on a penalty in training—twice. Plus, he had Bates breathing down his neck. The man had already ordered a private photographer to take glamour shots of Howard in the club kit for the programme cover. If Howard didn't start tonight, the old geezer would lose it. Probably fire someone out of spite. After a few tense seconds, Blackwell sighed heavily. "Fine. But if you make one mistake, just one—" "You can sub me off," Howard interrupted quickly. "Or throw a shoe at me. Your call." Blackwell rolled his eyes. "Get your gloves on. And drink some water. You still reek of Guinness." Howard stood up, gave a confident nod, and grabbed his gloves. "Don't worry, boss. I got this." As Blackwell turned to leave the room, he muttered to himself, "Why couldn't I have just stayed in Leeds..." From the corner of the room, one of the assistant coaches leaned toward the physio and whispered, "I give it fifteen minutes before he dives the wrong way and blames it on muscle memory." *** At exactly 7:30 PM, the whistle blew, and the match between West Bromwich Albion and Tottenham Hotspur officially kicked off at the Hawthorns. The players from both teams emerged from the tunnel in neat lines, following the referee like schoolkids on a field trip. The cameras were quick to zoom in on West Brom's newest big-money signing—Tim Howard. As soon as Howard's face appeared on the massive stadium screen, the stands erupted into cheers loud enough to scare the pigeons off the roof. The fans didn't just clap; they howled. They stomped. Some held up homemade signs with Howard's face on them—one hilariously painted to look like Jesus in a goalkeeper jersey. The Howard-mania was real. Bates, sitting smugly in the VIP box with his fellow shareholders, stood up and joined the applause like a proud uncle who had just watched his nephew walk for the first time. He looked like he was already writing tomorrow's headline in his head: "Howard Saves the Day – Bates the Genius." Meanwhile, down on the pitch, Howard wasn't quite feeling the same level of joy. Something was off. Really off. From the moment he stepped out of the tunnel, Howard couldn't shake this weird feeling in his gut—not just the leftover kebab from the night before. No, this was something deeper. In his past few months with Leeds, he'd always felt this weird kind of sixth sense in goal. A shot was coming? He'd feel it in his bones before the striker even moved. He'd dive before anyone blinked. But today? That sixth sense had taken the night off. Maybe it was still hungover. By the ninth minute, his inner alarm bells should have been screaming, but instead they were snoozing on a hammock. That's when it happened. Tottenham earned a free kick, about 33 meters out. Nothing too dangerous. The kind of situation where most keepers casually stretch and yawn while their defenders build a wall. But Howard? He decided it was the perfect time to grab a drink. Yes. A drink. While the Tottenham players positioned the ball and quietly exchanged glances, Howard wandered back toward the goalpost, picked up his water bottle, unscrewed the cap like he was on a picnic, and took a long, refreshing gulp. He didn't notice Defoe sneaking a glance at the ref. Didn't hear the quick whistle. Didn't see the ball leave Defoe's foot. What Howard did see—far too late—was a white blur curling around the half-built wall, flying straight into the net like it had a personal vendetta against him. And what was Howard doing? Still drinking. Literally mid-sip. The ball hit the back of the net with a satisfying thud, and the entire stadium froze. It was the kind of silence you only hear when a magic trick goes horribly wrong. The director, perhaps with a cruel sense of humour—or maybe just doing his job too well—cut straight to the jumbo screen footage of Howard looking up at the scoreboard with his mouth still full of water. It was comedy gold. Tragic, but gold. The fans, who had just moments ago treated him like a footballing messiah, suddenly turned into angry villagers ready to storm the castle. They rained down boos, and the beautiful Queen's English morphed into a mix of curses and insults that could make a sailor blush. In the press box, one reporter whispered to another, "Did... did he just concede a goal while hydrating?" Back in the VIP section, Bates sat frozen, blinking like he'd just been told his stocks had crashed. His shareholders looked around awkwardly, trying to pretend they hadn't just stood up to clap a man who got humiliated on live television. Meanwhile, over in Leeds, Arthur was watching the match on his modest living room TV with a cup of tea in hand. When the goal replay showed Howard gulping water as the ball zipped past him, Arthur choked so hard he sprayed tea all over the coffee table. He snatched up a napkin and frantically wiped the puddle while coughing. "Brother," Arthur muttered, staring at the screen in disbelief. "I knew you'd mess up eventually... but I didn't expect you to mess up this badly!" He rewound the footage just to make sure he'd seen it right. Yep. There it was again. Howard. Water bottle. Goal. Arthur leaned back on the sofa, shook his head, and sighed. "Fifteen million euros. For a keeper who forgets his job when he's thirsty." On screen, Howard looked around helplessly, possibly wondering if he could blame someone—anyone—for that mess. Maybe the ball boy? The grass? The wind? Back on the pitch, Blackwell stood on the sidelines with his arms crossed, his jaw tight. He didn't say a word, but the veins on his forehead did all the talking. You didn't need to be a lip reader to know he was regretting his life choices. He wanted to bench Howard. He almost did. But Howard had begged him, chest-pounding, eyes blazing: "Boss, trust me. I've got this!" Well, he definitely got something. A water bottle, maybe. Not the ball. Tottenham's players, especially Defoe, were grinning ear to ear. It's not every day you get a freebie like that. Defoe even gave a cheeky thumbs-up to the fans as he jogged back to midfield. As the game resumed, the fans' mood had soured fast. Every time Howard touched the ball, the sarcastic applause returned like a bad joke. And whenever the camera cut to Bates, the man looked more like someone who'd bought a luxury yacht only to find it had holes in the hull. Arthur finished wiping the tea from the table and sat back again, still shaking his head. He took out his phone and typed a short note: "System reminder – don't sell another player to Bates, he might actually kill me." Then he added another line: "Also – never trust a keeper who parties till 3am." The game wasn't even fifteen minutes old, but Arthur already had his entertainment for the night. He sipped the rest of his tea carefully, just in case Howard gave him another reason to laugh... or spit it out again. Brother, I knew you would suck, but I didn't expect you to suck so badly!