70: Wembley Calling

The smoke of the FA Cup had not yet dissipated, and the League's battle was coldly laid before them.

In the away match against Milton Keynes, Hartlepool United's players played listlessly.

Continuous hard battles had made their legs feel like they were filled with lead; their usual fluid attacks now became obscure and sluggish, with even passes having several more errors.

“Beep—”

The final whistle blew, and the glaring 0-0 on the scoreboard felt like a punch to everyone's chest.

The players gasped for breath, their faces etched with fatigue and helplessness.

Although they managed to snatch a point from the away game due to their tenacious defense, the atmosphere in the locker room was terribly oppressive.

On the League table, the pursuers behind them had crept a step closer, and the battle for the League championship instantly entered a suffocating, white-hot stage.

Back at the Phoenix Training Center, this anxious atmosphere was completely dispelled by one word.

Wembley.

As soon as this name was mentioned, the fatigue in the players' eyes vanished without a trace, replaced by a burning flame.

The thought of playing in the temple of football was more effective than any stimulant.

They temporarily forgot the League draw, their eyes only on that gleaming golden trophy.

Old John stood in front of the tactics board, where red magnets simulated the formation of their final opponent, Bristol Rovers.

In his folder were opponent intelligence reports Lin Feng had just sent via encrypted email, detailed down to each player's sprinting habits and dominant foot.

“Their number nine and number ten are two mad dogs; they must be marked tightly,” Old John said, pointing at the magnets representing the opposing forwards, to his assistant coach beside him, “The Boss specifically instructed that the number nine, Richard Walker, is experienced, and the number ten, Rickie Lambert, is their top scorer with exquisite shooting skills.

Smalling and Captain Nelson, your task is heavy; whoever loses their mark will report to the reserve team.”

In Lin Feng’s office, the system interface in his mind silently played recent match footage of Bristol Rovers.

Players' physical curves, tactical heat maps, and key weaknesses were all highlighted as data streams by the system.

“Their overall cohesion is very good, and their defensive organization is tight; they are not a soft target,” Lin Feng muttered to himself.

He knew that any team that could make it to the finals was certainly not to be underestimated.

He picked up a pen and casually sketched a diagram of Wembley Stadium on a piece of A4 paper, the huge pitch divided into tactical zones by lines.

“The pitch is wide, so our vital point is on the flanks,” he tapped the positions of the two flanks with his pen tip, where he had drawn two sharp arrows, “Utilize Wembley's wide pitch to let Simpson and Snodgrass's speed run wild, tearing their defense to shreds.”

He then drew a circle at the edge of the penalty area.

“Then, it will depend on Vardy's instinct and Gylfi's heavy artillery.”

A clear and specific “Wembley Strategy” took shape in his mind.

Lin Feng picked up the phone and called Old John, succinctly conveying several key tactical changes, including how to use the width of the pitch for quick one-two penetrations and three targeted corner kick tactics.

On the other end of the phone, Old John nodded repeatedly, feeling that the Boss's tactics were practically a tailor-made coffin for the opponent, with dimensions precise to the millimeter.

“Knock knock knock!”

The office door was suddenly pushed open, and Old Accountant John Stone rushed in, panting, his face flushed with excitement, tightly clutching a beautifully bound contract as if it were his life's fortune.

“Boss! Good... good news! Great news!” Stone's voice was trembling.

He handed the contract to Lin Feng, almost tripping over the carpet because he had run too fast.

“'Peak of Sport'! They agreed! Boss, they agreed to our proposal!” He pointed at the numbers on the contract, his fingers trembling, “A three-year equipment sponsorship and merchandise sales cooperation agreement, with a total value of over 1.5 million pounds!

This... this is more than our entire year's income last year!”

“Very good, John, go handle it,” Lin Feng simply took it calmly, glanced at it, and then casually placed it on the desk.

That contract, which would drive any League Two club manager mad, seemed to him like just an ordinary piece of scrap paper.

Stone was still standing there, immersed in the double impact of immense joy and the Boss's composure.

Lin Feng had already taken out another document from his drawer and laid it on the table.

It was an aerial rendering of the Phoenix Training Center's second phase, more than double its current size.

“And this,” Lin Feng pointed at the indoor training hall, youth academy dormitory building, and a futuristic research center on the blueprint, “Notify the construction team to start immediately after the final.

The budget is two million pounds, and I've already had finance prepare the funds.”

John Stone looked at the magnificent plan, opened his mouth, and for a long time couldn't utter a single word.

He was trembling with excitement over a 1.5 million sponsorship, and the Boss was immediately going to spend two million.

At this moment, he felt he wasn't working at a small League Two club, but was witnessing the foundation of a vast empire.

He looked at Lin Feng's calm profile, his eyes gleaming with an ambition far more distant and grand than money and trophies.

Meanwhile, the entire town of Hartlepool had completely fallen into a frenzy for Wembley.

Outside the club shop, fans queued for dozens of meters, scrambling to buy official fan group bus tickets to London.

In just a few days, the club had organized a convoy of nearly three thousand fans for the away trip.

“Wembley, here we come!” banners were posted on the windows of bars in every street and alley.

Children wearing Vardy's number nine jersey chased footballs through the streets, shouting Gylfi's name.

In the Hartlepool Mail office, Sophie Green was writing furiously.

She had started a new column titled “Wembley Diary.”

She wanted to record every detail of the team's preparation for the final, the players' sweat, and the fans' dreams.

She interviewed Vardy, who had just finished training, and asked him with a smile: “Jamie, your first time at Wembley, are you nervous?”

Vardy was wiping sweat with a towel, and hearing this, he grinned, revealing a mouthful of white teeth: “Nervous? I'm only thinking about how to kick the ball into Wembley's goal!

Let those Londoners see what kind of stuff we northerners are made of!”

Lin Feng stood by the office window, overlooking the second phase construction site of the Phoenix Training Center, which was under intense development.

On the construction site, excavators roared, trucks shuttled back and forth, and new building skeletons were rising from the ground.

In his eyes, there was no satisfaction, only infinite anticipation for the future.

League champion, EFL Trophy champion... these were just the first cornerstones of his Northern Dynasty.

He knew that Wembley was just a beginning, and the road to the Premier League, and even Europe, had only just begun to unfold beneath his feet.