NOVEL NEXT Chapter 12: Dortmund
The day had finally arrived—a match that promised to be unlike any before. Beecroft's home stadium was buzzing with an energy that was almost tangible. Gone were the dull, lifeless matches of previous weeks; today, every pass, every tackle, every cheer seemed to crackle with electricity. And the reason for it all? Word had spread that Tottenham's sports director, James Wilcox, was in attendance.
From the moment Richard stepped onto the pitch, he could sense the eyes of the world on him. The stadium, usually a sea of routine chants and steady murmurs, roared with anticipation. As the teams lined up for the kickoff, a familiar commentator's voice boomed, "Ladies and gentlemen, today is a game of destiny for Beecroft! And look—Tottenham's very own James Wilcox is watching from the VIP section. It's a sign that our young maestro, Richard Blake, is on the radar of Europe's elite!"
The whistle blew, and the match began in a burst of vibrant energy. Beecroft's opponents, a well-organized side known as RC Verviers, came out firing, but there was something different in Beecroft's play today. Richard, with the unmistakable calm of a seasoned veteran and the spark of youth, began controlling the midfield with effortless grace. His passes, crisp and visionary, cut through the opposition's defense like laser beams.
In the 15th minute, after a dazzling display of footwork, Richard unleashed a perfectly weighted through ball. The ball curved, danced past defenders, and found Luka sprinting into space. The crowd exploded as Luka's shot hit the back of the net—Beecroft led 1-0. The commentators couldn't contain their excitement: "What a start from Blake! That pass wasn't just precise—it was a statement!"
But the game wasn't over. RC Verviers fought back fiercely, pressing high and testing every inch of Beecroft's defense. In the 32nd minute, Richard found himself surrounded. With a burst of determination, he spun away from a clumsy tackle and delivered a no-look pass into the penalty area. Jasper, perfectly timed, controlled the ball and fired a low, curling shot that skimmed past the keeper to make it 2-0. In the VIP box, James Wilcox leaned forward, his eyes glinting with approval, as if saying, "This is exactly the kind of intelligence and creativity we're looking for."
As the first half wore on, the stadium vibrated with life. Every touch by Richard was met with cheers and shouts of encouragement from the stands, and his teammates were visibly charged, their energy feeding off his performance. Even the opposition, known for their steely composure, couldn't help but respect the artistry on display.
By halftime, the score was 2-0. In the locker room, the atmosphere was electric with triumph and high spirits. Teammates patted Richard on the back, and even Coach Marquez couldn't hide his grin. "That's the kind of performance that turns heads, Blake. Keep it up, and who knows where this will take you."
Out on the pitch in the second half, RC Verviers tried to claw their way back into the game, launching a series of attacks that forced Beecroft to dig deep. The pressure was intense, and the game became a battle of wills. Richard, however, remained unruffled. He orchestrated the play like a conductor, controlling the tempo with cool precision. Every pass was delivered with purpose, every movement calculated.
Around the 65th minute, in a moment that would soon become legendary, Richard picked up the ball deep in midfield. With a swift flick and a burst of speed, he broke free from a cluster of defenders. As he advanced, the noise in the stadium reached a fever pitch. Approaching the edge of the box, he surveyed the field with a calm intensity. In one fluid motion, he launched a stunning, curling shot from 30 yards out. The ball soared in an arc that defied physics, dipping just under the crossbar before smashing into the top corner. The stadium fell silent for a heartbeat—then erupted into pandemonium.
"Unbelievable!" cried one commentator. "Richard Blake has just delivered a world-class strike! That's the kind of moment that makes legends!" The roar of the crowd was deafening, echoing across the pitch as fans chanted his name, their excitement matching the brilliance of his play.
As the final whistle blew and Beecroft secured a resounding 3-0 victory, the significance of the day settled in. Not only had Richard showcased his extraordinary talent on a vibrant, life-filled stage, but he had also cemented his status in the eyes of those who mattered most. In the VIP section, James Wilcox gave a nod of approval that said more than any words could.
The match had been more than just a win—it had been a declaration. Richard Blake was on the rise, and the eyes of Europe were watching.
A week after that unforgettable match, whispers of Richard Blake's brilliance had only grown louder. The buzz wasn't confined to local circles anymore—rumors of interest from Europe's elite were now inescapable. In fact, it turned out that while Tottenham's sports director, James Wilcox, had already been vocal about Richard's potential, another heavyweight was making waves in town.
It all came to light one crisp evening at a high-profile football networking event held in a stylish Brussels venue. The room was abuzz with agents, scouts, and club officials discussing emerging talents, and Richard Blake's name was on everyone's lips.
At one corner of the room, James Wilcox—sharp, confident, and impeccably dressed in his signature navy suit—was engaged in animated conversation with none other than Karl-Heinz Bauer, the charismatic sports director of Borussia Dortmund. Their discussion was friendly but laced with competitive undertones.
"I'm telling you, Karl-Heinz," James said, leaning in with a knowing smile, "Richard Blake isn't just another prospect. His vision and precision on the field have the kind of elegance that spells success. At Tottenham, we see him as a future lynchpin in our midfield."
Karl-Heinz chuckled, swirling his wine. "Ah, James, always the poet. But you must admit—when you watch Blake in action, his pace, his dribbling… It's not just vision, it's raw dynamism. Dortmund needs that spark in our engine room. I've seen him orchestrate play like a maestro!"
A small crowd began to gather as their banter grew animated. One observer remarked, "Looks like the two top dogs are squabbling over a kid in League 2!" The tone was playful, but beneath the laughter was a clear sign of the weight Richard's talent carried.
James raised an eyebrow. "Look, Karl-Heinz, I'm not saying Dortmund wouldn't benefit from his flair. But let's be honest—at Tottenham, we're all about building on that intelligence. Richard isn't just a flashy dribbler; he has the composure to control games, and that's exactly what our manager demands."
Karl-Heinz leaned forward, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Composure, yes, but can he ignite a counterattack? Can he dribble past a pack of defenders with the ferocity that modern football requires? In Dortmund, we value that aggression. I'd wager his style would thrive in our high-octane system."
Their friendly quarrel sent ripples through the room. Agents and scouts nodded, some laughing, others scribbling notes on their tablets. One particularly enthusiastic agent whispered to a colleague, "This is the kind of banter that makes transfer windows interesting. Who knows—maybe Richard will be the next battleground for European giants."
Meanwhile, Richard was oblivious to the debate unfolding in high circles. Back at Beecroft's training ground, he was hard at work, the echoes of his latest performances fueling his determination. His focus was on the pitch, on perfecting each pass and each move, while the world around him began to take note.
As the event wound down, both sports directors parted with friendly jibes and promises to keep an eye on each other's progress. "May the best club sign him," James said with a sly grin.
Karl-Heinz clapped him on the shoulder. "Oh, we'll see who gets to call him our own first. Until then, let's enjoy the game."
For the first time, Richard's name wasn't just a whisper among local fans—it was a subject of debate among Europe's top decision-makers. And while the banter between Tottenham and Dortmund was all in good fun, it was a clear sign that the future was bright—and fiercely contested.