Chapter 415: Truce
England keeps detailed records of football hooligans. Once your name was entered, you were banned from attending matches at the stadium. For fanatics like these, being barred from the terraces was like being deprived of life itself.
Seeing the crowd outside, everyone on the bus sucked in a collective breath. Thankfully for the staff and the older players, this was not their first encounter.
"With this door as the boundary, you lot stay there and we’ll stay here. We’ll play our match while they can’t do a thing to us. Everyone will be safe as long as nobody crosses that line." O’Neill clapped his hands. "We’ll take our revenge on the pitch. Isn’t that a fantastic plan?"
After he finished, Sadie whipped out the camera hanging around her neck. "I think we’ve got justification here—if we turn back and the match is canceled, we can claim it was due to safety concerns. Also, if we want to strike back and make sure non-Millwall fans can’t watch a live match at their stadium in the future," she said, snapping away for documentation.
Inside the bus, everyone could clearly hear the shouting outside.
"And what? Sir, over there! I think you’d be more convincing if you said that in front of your comrades. If you keep hiding behind the crowd and calling for a fight, what happens when one really breaks out? Will you just push the others forward in your place?"
’Interesting,’ Sadie thought to herself. The Millwall fans are divided—some anarchic, some trying to calm things down. This is good drama. She quickly began jotting notes, shaping them into the best possible report.
"Come out! If you really want to hit me, then step forward on your own. Let me see how strong your fist really is!"
Everyone on the bus grew tense. If a full-scale fight broke out now, it would be disastrous. In fact, both groups already looked poised to lunge the moment someone made the first move.
But in the end, this was their own neighborhood, their own society. With CCTV cameras clearly recording everything, no one wanted to risk the bans or punishments that would surely follow. Even more, no one wanted their name added to the police blacklist.
"They won’t do anything," O’Neill said with conviction from inside the bus.
The bald leader of the anarchic faction shifted uncomfortably under the silent stares. Finally, gritting his teeth, he forced his way to the front. From below, the two factions—those who had attacked the bus and those trying to restrain them—squared off, nearly turning on each other.
"Damn it! Even if I never watch another match for the rest of my life, I still have to—" The bald guy waved his fists from the back of the crowd.
"WHAT THE BLOODY MOTHERFUCKER IS THIS?!"
Suddenly, while both factions were still locked in a stalemate, another voice thundered from behind. When everyone turned and saw who it was...
"Ah, shit."
Curses erupted all around.
The Blazing Squad—Carl Morran and his crew... wait, were they reporters? Reporters?—were already marching over.
What kind of people did the football hooligans hate the most and were most afraid of? Aside from the police, it would be the media. That was because, even when these people wrecked havoc, they did not wish for reporters to take pictures of their faces and appear in the headlines the next day. This would mean that they would lose the opportunity to watch matches.
The bald man, who had pushed himself to the front, glanced back. The moment he saw them, his face twisted with panic. He spun around to look at his comrades, who stood frozen in silence, then at the rival faction across from him. Right then, he felt like a slice of beef trapped in a sandwich—about to be torn apart from both sides.
As for Carl Morran himself, he thought, ’If only I had something—a baseball bat, or anything at all—I could at least put on a bluff. No... bluffing might be enough to make them retreat.’
At best, he reminded himself. Since Richard had prohibited the use of violence, he and his crew would need brains over fists. Yes, they were good citizens now. Violence was off the table.
Most of his crew had already disguised themselves as reporters, carrying cameras and recording equipment like props of war. To the untrained eye, they looked like just another group of journalists closing in on the bus.
He was here to bring his team to the match, not to start a fight. But he couldn’t shake Richard’s warning: "I’m warning you..."
His life had improved because of Richard’s investments — his family were better off, his crew’s lifestyle depended on that money. If Richard pulled out, if the investment dried up, they’d lose everything.
’Fight or beer?’
Carl muttered to himself. ’I’d rather spend my money on beer while watching football than on hospital bills.’ His family and crew’s livelihoods were at stake. For now, his only plan was to buy time. Keep them talking. Stall until the police arrived.
"What are you doing? I’m warning you..." Carl opened his mouth, and for a full ten minutes he argued back and forth with the bald man.
Carl’s entrance with the "reporters" had everyone panicked, thinking chaos was inevitable—but the outcome surprised them all. Only O’Neill and Mourinho, who knew Carl Morran well, sighed in relief.
As the situation grew awkward, O’Neill shrugged, stepped off the bus, and decided to join the discussion.
"Look how simple this is. You guys stay there, we stay here. We don’t interfere with each other. Pal, we’re here to play a match, not start a war. What’s your name?"
The bald man reflexively answered, "Alfred." But before he could finish, someone yanked him back. From behind the crowd, another man—older, in his fifties—stepped forward.
"Mr. Manager, I... no, we also don’t want to be smeared by the wretched media." He gestured toward the bald man behind him. "And even more, I don’t want my people ending up on the police blacklist because of this kind of nonsense. We won’t do anything," he said, raising his hands in a gesture of peace.
Carl Morran heard this and grew angry. He pointed at the bus. "I understand what you mean, but you—"
O’Neill quickly cut him off, placing a hand on his shoulder. Their eyes met, and the message was clear: ’Above all, don’t antagonize the crowd more!’
He then addressed the Millwall crowd. "If you have any questions, I’ll answer them after the match. But for now, could you please let my team get to the stadium?" he called out loudly.
"..."
When no response came, he turned sharply. "Hurry! Hurry! We’ve got less than an hour! Now’s the time for all of you to head to The Den—let’s move!"
For a long moment, silence hung over the street. The crowd of Millwall supporters looked at one another—some muttering under their breath, others still glaring at the bus. A few finally lowered their arms, shoving their hands into their pockets as if conceding defeat.
The older man who had spoken earlier gave a sharp nod. "You heard him. Make way."
Slowly, like a receding tide, the crowd began to peel back from the road. Boots scraped against the pavement, muttered curses lingered in the air, but the blockade thinned.
The driver wasted no time. With a deep rumble, the bus engine growled back to life. Inch by inch, it crept forward, past the tense faces pressed on either side.
Sadie’s camera clicked again, capturing the last traces of tension in the street.
Only after they had left the crowd did O’Neill slump back into his chair. His chest rose and fell heavily. Then he noticed Sadie, still looking around, snapping away with her camera. He pulled her over with a weary hand.
"Girl, you nearly killed me back there. My heart almost couldn’t handle it."
The only pity was that he did not have time to tell the players what tactics to use, and how to play during the match.
But Sadie paid him no mind. Instead, she said excitedly, "Mr. O’Neill! I think I’ve got the best news to talk about—I can write about what happened on the bus and publish it in the papers! I—"
TRING~
Suddenly, the sharp ring of a phone cut her off. Sadie glanced at her pocket, hesitated, then pulled out her phone and answered.
O’Neill, sitting not far away, didn’t care much at first—he was too drained to pay attention. But when the voice on the other end carried across, his ears pricked.
"No matter what you saw or heard on that bus, I don’t want to see a single word of it in tomorrow’s papers—especially not in our magazine. They gave you a lift, that’s all. You are not permitted to interview the players, and you will not write about this incident. Do you understand?"
Sadie froze, lips pressed tight.
"Alright," the voice continued. "Now hand the phone to Martin. I want a word with him."
At the end of the day, Sadie could only swallow her frustration. Richard’s authority was absolute. Reluctantly, she passed the phone to O’Neill.
"...Hello," O’Neill said into the receiver, his tone wary.