Chapter 14: I want to kill Arthur Morgan !

The situation on the screen wasn't looking good. Howard's face was now front and center on TV, and it had completely changed from the confident, almost smug expression he wore at the press conference. That version of Howard had looked like he was ready to conquer the Premier League. This one looked like he'd just dropped his ice cream on the pavement. Disappointed. Confused. Like he couldn't believe he'd just let in a goal while drinking water. Arthur sat on the sofa and stared at the screen, shaking his head slowly. He wasn't even mad. He just sighed, quietly, like a tired parent watching their kid fall off a bike for the fourth time in a row. He couldn't help but marvel at how powerful the system was. Just one Buffon experience card had turned Howard into a wall at Leeds. A world-class wall. Solid, calm, unbeatable. But now that the card had expired? The "nervous knife" was back. The original Howard had returned—full of talent, full of potential, but also full of unexpected surprises. And not the good kind. Arthur leaned back and rubbed his chin. "He's definitely not worth the 15 million now," he muttered. "But... I can't say he didn't earn it for me." It was true. Howard had helped him win games, boosted Leeds to the top of the table, and made Arthur a small fortune in transfer fees. So, in a way, he was grateful. "I'm still more than fair to the guy," Arthur said to himself. "For the next ten years, that transfer fee will probably stay in the top five for goalkeepers. Plus, Bates gave him a four-year deal and a salary bigger than what he got at Man United or Leeds." Howard might lose his starting spot someday, but his bank account was safe. Probably smiling. With that, Arthur picked up the remote, turned off the TV, and stood up. He had no more interest in watching the rest of the mess. There was still work to do. He had a stack of new tactical plans waiting in the study, and tomorrow's training session was going to be full of surprises—for everyone but Howard. ... In the second half, Howard had already switched to the goal on the South Stand, which was full of West Bromwich diehard fans. He was enduring the fans' warm greetings, and wanted to refute, but he had no way to say it, after all, the goal lost in the first half was indeed caused by his lack of concentration. He shook his head and secretly made up his mind that he would not be absent in the second half. ······· It had taken a good 40 minutes of clumsy passing, nervous dribbling, and several shots that nearly hit corner flags, but somehow—somehow—West Bromwich Albion managed to equalize in the 43rd minute. The fans roared like they'd just won the World Cup, not realizing most of them had been shouting "WHAT WAS THAT?!" for the previous 42 minutes. Inside the locker room at halftime, the atmosphere was... tense. Blackwell stood in front of a whiteboard with a marker in one hand and a deep frown on his face. The players sat around pretending to look focused, though at least three were clearly daydreaming about post-match kebabs. Blackwell quickly ran through the tactical adjustments. A few changes in positioning, tighter marking, and a firm reminder that "just kicking it really hard" is not a strategy. Then, he glanced over at Howard, who was quietly sitting in the corner like a schoolboy who'd broken a window. Blackwell thought about it for a long second. He knew full well that replacing Howard at halftime was the logical thing to do. But logic, unfortunately, wasn't the boss of this club—money was. And upstairs in the stands sat Bates, the man who had just spent 15 million euros on a goalkeeper who got scored on while drinking water. If Bates saw his brand-new purchase benched after 45 minutes, he'd probably start looking for a new coach by Monday. Blackwell sighed like a man accepting his fate and decided to roll the dice. As the players started filing out of the locker room, Howard was the last to stand up. That's when Blackwell grabbed him by the arm and turned him around. "Timothy," he growled, his voice low and sharp, "if it weren't for you, we'd be up 1–0 heading into this half. You owe me. Big time." Howard blinked. "I just—" "No. No talking. No excuses. No hydration breaks during free kicks, yeah? I want focus. I want saves. I want you acting like a professional goalkeeper and not someone who wandered onto the pitch by accident. Are we clear?" Howard opened his mouth again, saw the vein popping in Blackwell's forehead, and wisely closed it. He just gave a stiff nod and jogged out of the room, face tight, confidence somewhere between "maybe I've got this" and "please don't pass it back to me." The second half kicked off. Now, if there's one thing that unites hardcore football fans across all of England, it's this: when you play well, they'll worship you like you invented the sport. They'll name their kids after you. They'll put your face on flags. But the moment you mess up? You're finished. Not just you—your entire extended family gets dragged into it. Howard was about to find out just how quickly love turns into abuse when you're a Premier League goalkeeper who forgets what sport he's playing mid-match. One wrong move, and The Hawthorns faithful would go from chanting his name to Googling his address. *** The second half at the Hawthorns had been mostly quiet, almost like both teams had agreed to a temporary truce. No wild tackles, no stunning dribbles, not even the occasional dramatic dive. It was just a lot of running around, some back-and-forth midfield battles, and a whole lot of nothing in front of goal. Howard, for his part, seemed to have calmed down after the halftime dressing down from Blackwell. The man had gone full drill sergeant on him before the second half kicked off, probably to avoid being roasted by Bates and the other shareholders in the stands. Blackwell didn't want to sub Howard out—he wasn't that brave—but he did make sure Howard understood that any more water-drinking incidents would earn him a one-way trip to the bench. To be fair, Howard did seem to get his head back in the game. Even without the Buffon experience card, his base rating from the system was still B-minus, which meant he wasn't hopeless—just a bit chaotic. His "nervous knife" trait and "butter hands" problem were real, though. That's what got him booted from Manchester United in the first place. No one enjoys watching their keeper turn into a circus act mid-game. Still, credit where credit's due—Howard managed to stop all three of Tottenham's attempts in the second half. The saves weren't exactly highlight-reel material, but he got the job done. His gloves stayed on his hands, he didn't try to hydrate mid-play, and the fans slowly went from cursing him to reluctantly clapping for him again. One good save even got a few whistles of approval. It wasn't forgiveness, but it was progress. As the clock ticked toward 90 minutes, it looked like West Brom might escape with a 1-1 draw. Blackwell looked slightly less constipated on the sideline, and Bates, who had spent most of the match getting dirty looks from shareholders and angry fans, started to smile again. A draw wasn't a win, but at least it wasn't loss number six in a row. Bates had definitely felt the heat in the first half. After Howard's water bottle disaster and Defoe's cheeky free-kick goal, everyone in the front row had turned to him like angry parents at a school play gone wrong. The unspoken question in the air was: "You paid 15 million for this clown?" But now, with Howard holding it together and Tottenham unable to break through, Bates was beginning to recover his dignity. He even gave a thumbs-up to someone two rows down. Maybe, just maybe, this game wouldn't be a complete PR nightmare. Then came the 92nd minute. Tottenham won a corner after a brief burst down the right wing by Aaron Lennon. It was the last play of the game—one final chance before the ref blew the whistle and sent everyone home. Robbie Keane walked over to take it. The Irish striker wasn't a towering threat, but he had a reputation for clever play and precise deliveries. He adjusted his socks, placed the ball near the corner flag, and took a look around the box. Inside the penalty area, players were already jostling for position. Elbows were flying, shirts were getting tugged, and someone from West Brom tried to sneak in a quick shove when the ref wasn't looking. Howard stood near his line, barking orders and pointing at people. He saw Keane out of the corner of his eye and recognized him immediately. They'd faced off last season when Howard was still at Manchester United. Back then, Howard had been solid, dependable, and—most importantly—sober-minded. After his transfer to Leeds and a bizarre few months of Buffon-fueled brilliance, Howard had somehow become the most hyped goalkeeper in the second division. Not a single mistake the entire season. The media even called him "Iron Gloves." So when Leeds got relegated and West Brom, desperate for a keeper, came knocking, Howard's price tag shot up faster than a bottle rocket. But now, as Keane stood over the ball, he wasn't all that impressed with what he'd seen today. Sure, Howard had made some saves, but the guy also looked jumpy and had fumbled two long-range shots. If Keane had been a little quicker, he might've pounced on one and buried it. So, naturally, Keane decided to test the shaky keeper one more time. The ref gave a short blast of the whistle. Keane took a deep breath and stepped back. He ran up, and with the inside of his right foot, whipped the ball toward the goal. It wasn't one of those lazy crosses either—it was a vicious, curling corner with pace, spinning inwards with devilish speed. All 20,000 fans at the Hawthorns held their breath. On the big screen, the stadium director cut to Howard. There he was, fully focused, eyes locked on the ball, knees bent, arms ready. This was his moment. Redemption was just one clean punch or catch away. Howard had done this dozens of times before at Leeds. Ball coming in hot? No problem. Jump, claim it, and launch a quick counter with a long throw. Simple. He calculated the ball's arc. He timed his jump perfectly. Then he jumped. Up he went, arms extended, ready to pluck the spinning ball out of the sky like a majestic eagle snatching a fish from a lake. Except this eagle missed. Badly. The ball, spinning like it had a personal vendetta, swerved at the last second. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe it was fate. Maybe the ball just hated Howard. Whatever the reason, it veered just past his fingertips. Howard's outstretched hand grabbed nothing but air. The ball dropped like a stone into the bottom left corner of the net. Goaallllll! Tottenham 2, West Brom 1. Silence. The entire stadium froze. The big screen caught Howard as he landed back on the ground, wide-eyed and confused, his arms still out as if waiting for the ball to change its mind and come back. It didn't. The referee blew the final whistle. From the top of the stands, Bates slumped into his seat like a man who'd just watched his retirement fund vanish. Down on the touchline, Blackwell looked like he was going to eat the nearest water bottle out of sheer frustration. The fans, after taking a moment to process what had just happened, erupted. Not in celebration. Oh no. They erupted in pure, unfiltered English rage. Howard's name was shouted in every possible creative insult available. His gloves were called useless. His intelligence questioned. His ancestry thoroughly analyzed. Some fans even left early, just so they could complain on the radio before traffic hit. West Brom had just lost their sixth game in a row. And it had ended on a corner kick. A corner kick that Howard had tried to catch like a schoolkid chasing a balloon at a birthday party. Arthur, watching from home, didn't know whether to laugh or cry. On the one hand, Howard had basically gifted the game to Tottenham. On the other, the guy had helped Leeds get promoted last season and had brought in a nice chunk of money. Arthur sighed, reached for the remote, and switched off the TV. He had training plans to prepare, and if today had taught him anything, it was this: No matter how much money you spend, you can't buy a new pair of hands for your goalkeeper. Especially not if he keeps trying to catch corners like he's on a trampoline. "Bates wanted him so bad," he chuckled. "Well, enjoy." He headed to the study, a stack of tactic sheets waiting on his desk. New systems to test, fresh ideas to try. Tomorrow's training would be busy. Howard's career? Not his concern anymore. At least Howard had a nice four-year contract and a salary bigger than what he got at Manchester United. Even if he couldn't hold onto the ball, at least he could hold onto the paycheck.