72: Unexpected bumps in the league

At Edgeley Park in Stockport County, the final whistle blew sharply, like a needle piercing the illusions of all Hartlepool fans.

The numbers on the scoreboard were coldly fixed at 2-0.

The Hartlepool United players, like a group of defeated roosters soaked in rain, hung their heads and dragged their leaden legs into the away team's changing room.

In the changing room.

The players silently took off their jerseys, soaked with sweat and rain. The jerseys stuck to their bodies, carrying the heavy weight of defeat.

No one spoke; the air was filled only with heavy breathing and the dripping sound of a faucet, mixed with the earthy smell of mud and the sour odor of sweat.

The door creaked open, and Lin Feng walked in.

He didn't go to Old John for an update as usual, nor did he even glance at Old John. Instead, he walked directly to the center of the changing room and scanned the downcast faces.

His gaze was cold, colder than the icy rain of March outside the window, carrying a suffocating sense of oppression.

He stood there without saying a word.

The oppressive silence became even more terrifying, making every breath difficult.

"Who can tell me what you were playing in the second half?"

Lin Feng's voice was soft, yet it was like a cold stone hitting a still surface, stirring up a chill.

No one dared to look up. No one dared to meet his icy gaze.

"Did you think that just because you're promoted, you can stroll around on the field?" He paced in front of Vardy, who was tightly covering his face with a towel, trying to avoid that gaze.

"Jamie."

Vardy stiffened, slowly removing the towel. His face still had the flush of the game, but now it turned pale with shame.

"How many sprints did you make in the second half? Where's your speed? Did you leave it at the bar last night?"

Vardy's face instantly turned crimson, his lips moved, wanting to retort, wanting to explain, but he couldn't utter a single word. He knew Lin Feng was telling the truth; he had indeed been a bit lax.

Lin Feng didn't look at him again and walked towards young Smalling.

"Chris, that conceded goal, the opposing striker was dancing on your head. Were you buying a ticket to be a spectator? Is your height just for decoration?"

Smalling's head sank even lower, almost retracting into his jersey. He felt an unprecedented humiliation, but he couldn't argue, because that header was indeed his responsibility.

"And all of you!" Lin Feng's gaze swept over the other players. Although his voice wasn't loud, it carried an undeniable authority, "Jordan, where was your running coverage? Gylfi, where was your organization and long-range shots? Adam, where were your wing breakthroughs? Where did you all leave them?"

The players all hung their heads; no one dared to make a sound. Each of them could recall the mistakes that shouldn't have happened during the game, those moments of insufficient focus.

"If you go to Wembley with this kind of form today," Lin Feng's tone suddenly became incredibly stern, his voice not loud but carrying a soul-piercing sense of oppression, "I guarantee you, you will only become the perfect backdrop when Bristol Rovers lifts the trophy! By then, television viewers across the country will see how Hartlepool United, like a group of amateur players, handed over the championship!"

His words were like a sharp scalpel, precisely cutting open the players' last bit of self-esteem, leaving them nowhere to hide.

"This defeat is the best wake-up call!" Lin Feng's voice echoed in the small changing room, "Either be woken up by this slap, or sink at Wembley with your ridiculous pride! Choose for yourselves!"

After Lin Feng finished speaking, he turned and left without another word.

Old John finally couldn't help but step forward and open his mouth: "Boss, it's my fault..."

"Shut up!" Lin Feng interrupted him coldly without looking back, "Of course you're wrong, but right now, let them think it over themselves!"

The door was gently closed, and Lin Feng's figure disappeared, but that cold sense of oppression still enveloped the entire changing room.

The players finally looked up, exchanging glances, their faces filled with shame, anger, and unwillingness. They realized that this was not an ordinary defeat, but a wake-up call from their boss. They had disappointed their boss and also disappointed the fans who cheered for them in the wind and rain of the North Sea. In the changing room, some clenched their fists, their knuckles white from the effort; some quietly cursed themselves; and some had slightly reddened eyes.

The next day, back at the Phoenix Training Center.

The atmosphere on the training ground had completely changed. Gone were the usual jokes and laughter, replaced by an almost solemn focus.

Every pass, every run, carried an intensity, as if to vent all the frustration of yesterday's defeat.

After training, Vardy voluntarily dragged defender Nelson for extra one-on-one practice. He was like a mad beast, repeatedly attacking the old captain's defense until both were exhausted and collapsed on the grass, breathing heavily.

Schmeichel roared loudly in front of the goal, directing the positioning of the defense. Any small mistake would incur his roar, his voice piercing through the entire training ground.

Lin Feng had Old John announce that from today until the Wembley final, the team would undergo closed-door training, refusing all media interviews. He wanted the team to rediscover that primal "hunger" for victory in an absolutely quiet environment.

The medical team also started working overtime: ice baths, physiotherapy, nutritious meals... everything was aimed at helping the players recover quickly from both physical and mental fatigue.

In the media, this unexpected defeat also sparked some questions. The Sun's sports section wrote with a teasing tone: "Magical Dark Horse Running Out of Steam? Wembley Could Be Hartlepool United's Waterloo."

These questions, ironically, relieved some of the external pressure on the players, allowing them to focus more on internal issues.

Sophie Green published a report in the Hartlepool Mail titled "Northern Lions in the Storm." She objectively analyzed the difficulties the team faced but also emphasized: "A timely defeat may be more valuable than ten easy victories. We have reason to believe that the Chinese boss, who always creates miracles, and his group of young people who never give up, will provide their answer at Wembley."

Lin Feng stood by the office window, watching the players' desperate efforts on the training ground, and a barely perceptible curve finally appeared at the corner of his mouth.

He knew that appropriate prodding and pressure before a major battle often ignited the team's strongest fighting spirit.

His anger was not for venting, but for igniting.

What he wanted was a group of lions crazy for victory.

Wembley was their Roman Colosseum.