Chapter 128: The Lead

"Captain Ben Conlan! A shot from distance, thirty yards out, and it flies in like a cannonball, straight into the Chelsea goal!"

"Pickford! The Chelsea keeper has no chance at all!" Conlan’s strike had been a thunderbolt, both powerful and fast.

"Reyes, Rocher, Pryce, three passes, three touches, and finally the captain delivers the killer blow!"

"One nil! Villa have taken the lead at Stamford Bridge, and they’ve done it against all expectations!"

"The goalkeeper seems to be waving his teammates off, saying he doesn’t want help. What is he trying to say?"

At that moment Conlan sprinted to the edge of the stands, roaring, both hands yanking at the front of his shirt.

It was obvious that he was venting, telling the home fans exactly who he was and what he thought of them.

But Conlan had not forgotten who had given him his chance. He turned and ran towards the Villa bench, and at the same moment Saint had shaken off Cadman and rushed to the touchline, waving both arms in wild celebration.

"Boss, thank you. Thank you." Hugged tight by Conlan, Saint heard the captain’s voice break as he spoke.

Before the game, Saint had told Conlan he had a free licence to shoot whenever he saw a chance. As a midfielder who was not known for his goals, Conlan had understood exactly what that meant.

"No, Ben, don’t thank me. Thank yourself. This is the reward for your hard work, and you have to believe you don’t have to be anyone else, not even your father," Saint said softly into his ear.

Conlan wanted to say more, but the rest of the Villa players weren’t going to give their captain the chance. They charged in and piled on top of him, burying Conlan and Saint beneath a heap of bodies.

"Damn it, Ben, I knew it would be you again!" Rocher shouted. Saint did not hear it, of course, and even if he had, he would have pretended otherwise.

From the stands, the Chelsea supporters let out a furious wall of hissing, showing exactly what they thought.

"This was a planned move, from start to finish," Granger said in the studio, analysing the Villa attack.

From the moment Reyes held the ball, to Rocher’s feint, to Pryce’s lay-off, and all of the midfield and front line besides, every piece of the move had been built to create a shot for Conlan.

That was exactly what it was. Saint had not done it purely because Chelsea meant something special to Conlan. He had also used a card.

The goal-probability card sharply raised a player’s chance of scoring, and the effect disappeared once he scored.

Saint had four points left over after helping Reyes, then six more from the two league wins, and he had spent three on the own-goal card, which left him seven. The new card had cost five, leaving him with two. In any one match a manager could only use two cards, and one had gone on Conlan. The other, the own-goal card bought for the Burnley match, had not been needed, and Saint still had it in his pocket.

In the stands, Frank Conlan’s expression grew more complicated still. Chelsea was the club he had given his whole career to, and now his son had just scored against the team he loved.

In the chairman’s private box, Ivor Kessler was looking uncomfortable. It was partly because his team was behind, and behind to a promoted side, and partly because of Conlan, a player who meant something special to everyone at the club.

Though the stands were hissing and booing him, the look in Conlan’s eyes was complicated too.

But Conlan did not care how the Chelsea side felt. He was a Villa player. Here he had outstanding teammates and a manager who trusted him, who had even entrusted him with the captaincy. He loved Villa now, and he hoped to keep playing like this.

In the end, Villa’s celebrations ended to the sound of the home fans’ complaints, and by then Hallam was already on the touchline, rearranging his tactics.

Until then, Chelsea might have looked down on Villa, because the gap between the sides had seemed so wide, but now the stars of Chelsea had to put that contempt aside.

Hallam’s control over the dressing room was not what it had been, but even so, when he was angry the players were still afraid of him, and Strickland was no exception.

On the pitch, play restarted with Chelsea in possession, and compared with their first attack, the home players were far more serious and cautious after conceding.

Soon the ball reached Strickland again. He had never played for anyone but Chelsea, and whether in English or world football, he was very highly rated.

What did that tell you? It told you Strickland really was good.

The two captains met again, but this time Conlan could not take the ball from Strickland. The Chelsea man pulled the ball back from Conlan’s tackle and slipped away. He had no choice but to give it up quickly, because Reyes was waiting in front of him and Conlan had already got back to his feet. If he did not pass, a double-team was coming.

Strickland had great skill and a good body, but he also had a weakness, which was that he was slow. A truly excellent player, though, can often cover up his weaknesses, and Strickland was exactly that kind of player.

Then the ball reached Rennick. The Chelsea striker was no longer the bad boy. He was the genius the press kept talking about, a player whose talent had the whole country excited.

"Teale!" The moment Rennick got the ball, Teale was on him, and the experienced centre-back did not give the striker the space to turn.

"Damn old git," Rennick muttered as he felt the strength coming from behind, and he could only pass the ball away.

Teale had been in superb condition all season. Even this summer he had not gone on holiday. To prove himself he had spent nearly all his time training and keeping fit, and with Iron Constitution backing him up, Rennick was not going to find it easy to beat him.

"Candler!" The Chelsea left wing-back was an England international, twice named his peers’ left-back of the year, and had been the key man in the side that won the league.

The league was a land full of good defenders, and to be twice picked as the best left-back of the season was a proper recognition of his quality.

Candler took the pass and drove down the flank. Jurek met him a few yards from the touchline and the two veterans stood for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, each waiting for the other to blink.

Candler dropped a shoulder and tried to go outside. Jurek had read it from the first step, shut off the angle, and the ball ran out for a goal kick.

"Well played," Candler said in passing, with a thin smile.

"You too," Jurek said. "Enjoy it while it lasts."

Back on the touchline, Saint turned to Cadman and nodded once. Everything he had asked of the players in the dressing room was happening on the pitch. The lead was only a single goal, and he knew how quickly it could vanish, but for the moment he allowed himself to breathe.