May, evening, London — drizzle painting the streets, pedestrians weaving through the damp fog.
Old John's Bistro, nestled on the corner of an East London side street, usually languished in quiet on weekday nights. But tonight was different. The 2007-2008 UEFA Champions League final was underway — an all-English clash: Manchester United vs. Chelsea. With the domestic league wrapped up, this was the last spectacle before the long wait for the new season. Fans of both teams filled every pub in the city, and Old John's was no exception.
Tradition held strong. Football belonged in pubs, accompanied by beer, loud cheers, and passionate arguments. Yet, despite the crowd, Old John's was eerily quiet — more like a high-end café than a boisterous tavern. The smell of stale beer, sweat, and cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, but no one paid attention to that. All eyes were drawn to one man.
A figure in black sat alone by the window. His tall coat collar obscured most of his face, thick black hair shadowing his features. Even seated, his height was unmistakable — easily over 180 centimeters. Before him sat a growing collection of whiskey bottles.
He lifted his glass.
Clink... clink... clink...
The sound of whiskey swirling, then downed in one smooth motion — the strong liquid disappearing as though it were nothing more than water. The onlookers, even the burliest, red-faced regulars, watched in quiet awe.
"How many bottles is that now?"
"Seventh? Eighth? Lost count..."
The match on the flickering screen seemed secondary now. Manchester United led 1-0 — Cristiano Ronaldo's header from the 26th minute still the only goal. Chelsea struggled to break through United's defense, but nobody in Old John's cared anymore.
Another bottle emptied with a hollow thud. The man turned slightly, finally revealing his face.
Sharp brows, deep-set eyes, a high nose bridge, and thin lips — his features were angular and unyielding. His gaze, piercing and unwavering, made the onlookers avert their eyes. He wasn't someone to be trifled with.
"Isn't that… the Chelsea coach?" someone whispered.
"Yeah, yeah — the Chinese guy! Ethan! Led the Chelsea U18 team to win the FA Youth Cup last month!"
"Chelsea's coach? Don't be ridiculous. Avram Grant's still in charge. And Abramovich hiring a Chinese coach? Not happening."
"No, it's true! He coached the youth squad. Won the cup too!" A man in a Chelsea No. 8 Lampard jersey staggered to his feet, voice slurred but defiant.
The pub quieted again. For all their skepticism, no one could deny the weight of victory. Winning mattered more than nationality.
"Heard he got sacked, though..."
"Yeah, Abramovich didn't like him."
"Something about crossing a director?"
"Winning a title and still getting booted. Typical Chelsea..."
The mood turned bitter. The mention of the Russian owner stirred resentment.
"Bloody Abramovich..."
"Russians ruin everything."
"Bartender..." Ethan's voice cut through the muttering. He raised a hand, snapping his fingers.
Without hesitation, another bottle slid his way.
Eyes followed him, admiration and pity blending in equal measure, as he poured and drank again.
Whiskey, like water.
A glass of whiskey, but Ethan didn't feel a thing. Compared to liquors like gin, whiskey might have the strength, but it lacked that burning punch.
"Hey, Chinese guy! Aren't you a coach? Look at me — what position do I play?"
A chubby man stumbled over, swaying slightly.
Ethan frowned. A translucent, holographic screen appeared before him — something only he could see.
Explosive power: 20
That's terrible...
Endurance: 22
Can this guy even walk, let alone play football?
The stats scrolled on. Ethan scanned through them lazily — weight, stamina, agility — all disasters. The guy wasn't even fit for an amateur team.
Goalkeeping technique: 55
What?!
Ethan blinked, surprised. This walking meatball... a goalkeeper?
A 55 rating for a goalkeeper wasn't half bad in amateur football. Too bad the guy was so fat — maybe a low-tier league would've noticed him otherwise.
"With your size, the only position that suits you is goalkeeper," Ethan muttered, and the light screen faded.
He hadn't figured out where this ability came from, but it was undeniably useful for a football coach — like having a real-life Football Manager stat screen. Too bad it only worked once a day. Waste of a scan on this guy, honestly.
Ethan took another drink.
"You figured that out too?" the fat man scratched his head.
"Obviously. Kenny, you're huge. Goalkeepers don't need to run..."
The pub burst into laughter. Kenny didn't seem to mind the jokes.
"So, what do you think the score'll be?" Kenny pointed at the TV. Chelsea vs. Manchester United.
"Chelsea's about to equalize," Ethan said, sipping his drink.
The clock hit 44 minutes. United still led 1-0.
"No way. United won't let them get that chance."
The pub erupted in debates. English fans knew their football — they wouldn't be swayed by a random coach's prediction.
Kenny grinned, swigging his drink. "Let's bet. If Chelsea scores before halftime, drinks are on me. If they don't, you cover my drinks. Deal?"
The pub booed at the unfair setup.
"Thanks for the free drinks, then," Ethan smirked.
As if on cue, the clock hit 45 minutes. Essien fired a long shot. He wasn't aiming for anything special — just a frustrated strike after struggling to contain Ronaldo. The ball ricocheted off Ferdinand's leg, then off Vidic's back. It dropped awkwardly into the box. Van der Sar lunged but missed. Lampard, perfectly positioned, struck it home.
1-1. Chelsea equalized.
The pub exploded in cheers — this was London, after all. Chelsea fans outnumbered the United supporters. Some fans groaned, holding their heads.
Kenny laughed the loudest. "Coach Ethan! Drinks are on me tonight!"
Ethan barely noticed Kenny's celebratory slap on his shoulder. His eyes stayed locked on Lampard, who was celebrating on-screen.
The second half ended without more goals. Extra time dragged on. Then came the penalty shootout — Terry slipped, United won the Champions League.
Memories from 2018 tangled with thoughts from 2008. Ethan stared at the screen, his fingers clenched tightly around his glass.