77: "Vacation" mentality

The EFL Trophy champion's trophy still gleamed in the display room.

The atmosphere at Phoenix Training Center, however, had already slackened like a rubber band stretched for half a year.

The early promotion spot, coupled with that weighty trophy, made these young men feel like they could pop the champagne early this season.

On the training ground, laughter was louder than shouts.

"Ibiza! Lads!" Jamie Vardy jogged, winking at his teammates. "The DJ there has already carved my name on the VIP booth, just waiting for me to open a bottle of Ace of Spades!"

"Oh, come on, Jamie," Joel Porter chuckled, panting beside him. "Can your electronic ankle monitor leave the country?"

Laughter erupted.

Lin Feng stood by the sideline, watching it all.

He saw Jordan Henderson, during a passing drill, make a simple cross-pass that went directly to the assistant coach's feet on the sideline. The young lad scratched his head in embarrassment, earning a burst of laughter from his teammates.

A substitute winger tried to imitate Cristiano Ronaldo's step-overs in training, only to trip over his own feet, almost falling flat on his face. The laughter grew louder.

Even Vardy attempted a forty-meter lob shot in a training match, the ball flying high into the stands, earning him a fierce glare from Old John.

In the pre-match tactical meeting room.

"There are still a few League matches left, and the championship trophy is still in The FA's vault, but your holiday plans seem to be quite clear," Lin Feng's voice was calm.

But every word was like a small ice pellet, hitting the players' flushed foreheads. "Focus. Respect your opponents, and respect yourselves."

His gaze swept over Vardy, over Sigurdsson, over Henderson. These young men, usually full of fighting spirit, now had wandering eyes, clearly not taking his words to heart.

"What's there to fear from a mid-table League team? This season, even Mourinho's Chelsea and Wenger's Arsenal were almost dragged down by them."

The players mumbled, "Yes, Boss," but inwardly they were dismissive. Privately, they felt Lin Feng was making a mountain out of a molehill.

Old John noticed the players' nonchalance. He paced anxiously beside Lin Feng, lowering his voice: "Boss, these lads are getting wild. What should we do?"

Lin Feng's gaze swept past Old John, towards the grinning players on the field, his tone chillingly indifferent.

"Let them be. They won't learn until they bleed."

On match day, Sophie Green did not accompany the team; she felt the outcome of this match was a foregone conclusion.

The local radio commentator introduced the match in a relaxed tone during the live broadcast: "...Hartlepool United's performance this season has been nothing short of miraculous. Let's see if Grimsby Town can cause a little trouble for the future League One team at home today."

Old John fielded a rotating lineup of half-starters. Veteran players like Captain Nelson and winger Snodgrass were benched. He even gave young Chris Smalling a chance, partnering him with Ben Clark at center-back. This was rarely seen in crucial League matches of the past.

As soon as the whistle blew, Hartlepool United's players played listlessly.

Jordan Henderson's casual through-pass went directly to the opposing defensive midfielder's feet, who even paused for a moment before realizing it was a gift from the opponent.

Full-back Hugh Robertson's forty-five-degree cross, swung with full force, resulted in the ball curving inexplicably towards the corner flag. He awkwardly stuck out his tongue and slowly walked back.

Old John watched from the sidelines, his blood pressure soaring, muttering something under his breath.

He shouted at the players on the field, but they seemed not to hear him, merely running mechanically.

He even saw Vardy, during an attack, have a clear chance to run in for a one-on-one, but instead chose to drop back to receive the ball, then took a soft long-range shot that was easily collected by the opposing goalkeeper.

But even a rotten ship has three pounds of nails. Hartlepool United's inherent strength was still there.

In the twenty-fifth minute, a Grimsby defender's clearance kick went awry, and the ball, by a strange twist of fate, landed at Vardy's feet.

Vardy, without much effort, took two touches, and facing the onrushing goalkeeper, easily pushed the ball into the net.

Goal.

One-nil.

Vardy didn't celebrate, merely raising one hand languidly, as if he had accomplished something trivial.

Several players on the field high-fived each other, their expressions seeming to say, "See, winning this kind of match is just that simple."

In the VIP box, Lin Feng's hand, holding a teacup, paused in mid-air.

He slowly leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

He knew trouble was coming.

After taking the lead, Hartlepool United completely transformed into a different team.

Midfielders stood waiting for the ball, forwards strolled in the attacking third, and the distance between the defensive lines was wide enough for a double-decker bus to drive through.

The young center-back pairing of Ben Clark and Chris Smalling appeared indecisive in several defensive situations, lacking communication with each other, and their positioning was too spread out.

Smalling even watched, in one defensive play, as the opposing winger surged past him. He did not choose to press tightly but was half a step slow.

Grimsby Town's players smelled blood.

Their coach excitedly waved his arms on the sidelines, roaring: "Push up! All of you, push up! They've slackened! They've slackened!"

Grimsby's players, like an enraged swarm of wasps, frantically pressed and tackled, using the most primitive collisions and runs to attack Hartlepool United's seemingly strong but actually loose defense.

Kasper Schmeichel became the busiest man on the field.

One moment he was diving to save an opponent's long-range shot, the next he was rushing out of the box to clear the ball with a big kick.

He bellowed at the defensive line, trying to get them to focus, but his only response was his teammates' indifferent shrugs and the increasingly loud cheers of the Grimsby fans.

His face was covered in sweat, his brows furrowed, and his eyes were filled with anger at his teammates' lack of concentration.

"Hartlepool United's performance today is very strange," the radio commentator also sensed something was wrong.

"They're playing too casually, completely lacking the focus and discipline a championship team should have. Grimsby Town, on the other hand, has seized the opportunity; their attacks are becoming more and more fierce."

The half-time whistle blew, and the score remained one-nil.

In the locker room, the players chatted and laughed, as if victory was already assured.

Several young players even began discussing whether they should try to rest in the next match.

They were even discussing whether the club would organize an overseas celebratory trip if they won the League championship.

Old John stood before them, his lips moving, wanting to say something, but looking at their excited faces, he ultimately swallowed his words.

He knew Lin Feng had not appeared, nor had he called.

This moment of calm, however, filled Old John's heart with an unprecedented chill. He knew this was just the suffocating silence before the storm.