c6 - Like an Assassin
For three seconds, the amateur stadium fell into a stunned silence. Then, an eruption of disbelief and awe filled the air, as if they had just witnessed a miracle.
Vardy did not celebrate. But his teammates? That was another story. Like a pack of wolves hunting their prey, they sprinted toward him, knocking him to the ground in a frenzy of excitement. Even David, who had been sitting on the bench moments ago, charged onto the field, waving his jersey in the air before throwing it over Vardy's face.
"You bastard! Do you even realize what you just did?"
"My heart is about to explode!"
"Wait, let me check your legs. Are you hiding an engine down there?"
They piled on top of him, their cheers chaotic and their words jumbled, a mix of astonishment and pure exhilaration. Their reactions didn't make much sense, but in that moment, reason had no place on the field.
Vardy, gasping for air under the weight of his teammates, barely managed to groan out:
"Guys... if you don't let me up soon... you'll have to ask the coach for time off to attend my funeral tomorrow."
On the sidelines, the Steel Team's coach gave Vardy an emphatic thumbs-up, beaming with pride. It was a gamble to put him on, but now it felt like the best decision he had made all season.
Langley, too, wore a knowing smirk. He had seen many promising young talents in his career, but there was something different about Vardy. His acceleration, his decision-making, his ball control even at full sprint—these were elite-level traits. And the composure in front of goal? That was something only natural-born strikers had.
This wasn't just raw speed.
This wasn't just a lucky break.
This was the making of a lethal finisher.
Langley found himself raising Vardy's potential in his mind with every passing second.
Could he be the next Michael Owen?
Or Thierry Henry, the super finisher?
Dare he even dream—was there a glimpse of Ronaldo, the Brazilian phenomenon, in this kid?
Langley didn't know. And frankly, he didn't care. What mattered now was ensuring Vardy didn't slip away from his grasp.
He belonged at Carrington. He belonged at Manchester United.
Across the field, the opposing players no longer looked at Vardy with amusement. Gone were the smirks, the dismissive chuckles.
This kid, who they had mocked just minutes ago, had torn through their defense like a hot knife through butter. And worse, they had no answer for his blistering speed.
The game resumed quickly. With no professional referee, substitutions and interruptions had been handled loosely. Even David's mad rush onto the pitch had gone unpunished.
Though still leading on the scoreboard, Vardy's opponents now played cautiously, shaken by what they had just witnessed. No one wanted to see another coast-to-coast solo run end in humiliation.
Sensing their hesitation, the Steel Team pounced. The momentum shift was clear. With renewed energy, they pressed high, battling for every ball in midfield. The coach, voice hoarse from screaming instructions, urged them forward.
"Push up! Give Vardy the ball! Let him run!"
Vardy rolled his eyes. Does this guy even know what offside is?
Langley, meanwhile, leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. His decision was already made. Now, he could just sit back and enjoy the spectacle.
Despite the surge of energy, the Steel Team struggled to break through. Their midfield, though invigorated, still lacked the technical finesse to carve out clear chances. The opposing defenders, well aware of Vardy's threat, shadowed him relentlessly, ensuring he had no space to receive the ball. Wherever he moved, two markers followed. Even when the ball was far away, they jostled and shoved him, making sure he felt their presence.
Vardy grimaced. "Damn, these guys are built like brick walls. What's the point of hitting the gym so hard just to play in an amateur league?"
Slowly, his opponents sensed the Steel Team's attack had lost its bite. Confidence returned. They started committing more players forward, pushing the Steel Team back into their own half. The midfield battle was lost again. The game had reverted to the way it was before Vardy's entrance.
Some fans in the stands whispered among themselves. Was Vardy's goal just a fluke? Was he really the game-changer they thought he was?
But Vardy wasn't panicking.
He wasn't frustrated.
He was waiting.
Like an assassin hiding in the shadows, biding his time, unnoticed by his prey.
If defenders forgot about him, even for a second, it would be too late.
Langley, watching from the sidelines, smiled. He had seen this before. This was how elite poachers played.
This was Inzaghi. This was Rossi.
Football could be cruelly simple sometimes. If a striker spent an entire game invisible, barely touching the ball, fans would call him useless. But if that same striker touched the ball only once and scored? He would be the match-winner, the hero.
No one ever booed Inzaghi for disappearing in a game. Because when it mattered, he always appeared—right where the goal was.
Vardy was waiting for his moment.
And when it came, he would strike.