CHAPTER 120

May 20th, Morning – FA Cup Final Day

Ethan woke to the steady drumbeat of rain against his hotel window. Drawing back the curtains, he stared out at the grey English sky, where light raindrops misted the view. Classic English weather—especially on matchday.

Kickoff for the FA Cup Final was set for 5 p.m. This morning, however, there would be no training. Ethan had given his players the morning off to relax and conserve energy. At noon, they'd hold one last team meeting—not for tactics, which had already been drilled meticulously over ten days of closed-door training—but for motivation.

By now, the tactical instructions had been internalized. Every pressing trigger, transition pattern, and set-piece routine had been rehearsed again and again. All that remained was execution.

At the midday meeting, Ethan revealed the official starting eleven. While most of the players had already guessed the lineup from the training sessions, nothing felt real until the gaffer confirmed it.

"Adam, you're in."

Ten days of clues had led to this. Adam had been training with the first team throughout the camp, yet hearing his name spoken aloud by the head coach lifted the weight that had been pressing on his chest. Relief washed over him—but it was quickly replaced by a nervous buzz. This would be his first major final appearance.

One by one, the players left the conference room. Some returned to their rooms for a power nap, others gathered to play cards or chat. As long as they stayed inside the hotel, they had free time.

"Come on, Adam, you're more than ready," said captain Kevin Keane, ruffling the young midfielder's hair as he passed.

"Oi, I told you, lad!" Jamie Vardy grinned. "Get ready for war at Wembley!"

N'Golo Kanté followed behind, flashing a quiet but reassuring smile before disappearing into the hallway.

Adam took a deep breath and stood up. The nerves were still there, but they were now tempered by adrenaline.

Playing at Wembley—under the arch, on that pristine turf, in front of over 80,000 fans—it was every English player's dream. But it also came with pressure.

He recalled something Ethan had told the team:

"There's a fine line between a star and a squad player. That line is drawn by what you do when it matters. The great ones show up under pressure—they're fearless."

"I can be fearless too…" Adam whispered to himself as he stepped out of the room.

In another part of the hotel, assistant coach John glanced toward the window, watching the grey clouds roll across the London skyline.

"Starting a final under these conditions... that's a heavy burden for Adam," he said.

Ethan, standing by the window, didn't turn around.

"Pressure's part of the game, John. If he thrives under it, it changes everything—for him, and for us."

He paused, then smiled faintly.

"Let's not worry too much. After the final, the squad's on break. Got any plans?"

John chuckled. "Not really. You?"

"I'm going home," Ethan said softly.

He hadn't returned to China once since moving abroad over five years ago. His roots felt distant, but now was the right time to reconnect. He glanced down at his phone, at the number that kept calling but was never answered. Maybe now he would.

3:00 p.m. – Hotel Lobby

The players began to gather, dressed in the club's official travel kits. Outside, a sea of Luton Town fans had assembled, waving scarves and flags despite the drizzle. Cheers erupted as players appeared. Phones came out, voices raised, and the energy began to build.

By 3:20, the coaching staff joined them. Ethan gave a final nod, and the squad boarded the team bus.

London traffic crawled, and the ride to Wembley took nearly forty minutes. But no one complained. The tension was rising, and so was the excitement.

They had drawn the home dressing room—a psychological boost. The players were already familiar with the layout from previous visits. It was larger and more spacious than the away one, but ultimately, the match wouldn't be won in the locker room.

"Let's move, lads!" John called out, clapping his hands.

The players slipped into their kits—boots laced tight, shin pads checked, warm-up gear ready.

As they stepped out onto the iconic pitch for warm-ups, Wembley roared to life. On the touchline, both coaching teams exchanged starting lineups.

It had begun.

Benítez frowned as he studied Luton's starting lineup in the away team's locker room.

He hadn't expected such a significant change on the left flank.

The lineup card didn't reveal the formation outright, but Benítez was convinced Ethan was sticking with his preferred 4-4-2.

Still, two notable changes stood out: Adam White and Hassan Ali were starting in place of Lewis and Soro Davis.

Benítez pondered for a moment, trying to decipher the tactical reasoning.

Adam White was no stranger to Luton's matchday squad—he often came on when the team needed attacking impetus. His versatility made him a useful asset; he'd played on either wing, as a shadow striker, and even occasionally as a central forward.

But up until now, those appearances had all come from the bench.

"Is this Adam White's first start for Luton?" Benítez muttered to himself, eyebrows raised.

He'd done some background research on the youngster. Adam, dubbed by some as England's next technical prodigy, had been discovered playing street football. His flair and creativity were beyond question, but at just 17, his physical endurance left much to be desired.

That was likely why he hadn't cracked the starting XI until now—his body wasn't yet ready for the demands of a full 90 minutes at professional intensity.

The second surprise was Hassan Ali replacing Soro Davis.

Benítez quickly dismissed the idea of Luton switching to a back three—none of their right-backs had the traits of a ball-playing center-back. It seemed more plausible that Hassan Ali, a defensive midfielder by trade, would slot in at left-back.

Not unheard of.

Such a move could signal an attempt to reinforce the flank defensively.

He looked down again at the lineup sheet. Yes—Luton's left side was where the real transformation was happening.

By then, the Liverpool players had finished their warm-up and returned to the dressing room. Benítez folded the roster and looked up.

The players were busy changing out of their training gear and into match kits.

Steven Gerrard pulled up his socks, slipping in his shin guards—emblazoned with the Liverpool crest—before removing his long-sleeved training jacket. He buttoned up his iconic number eight jersey and carefully fastened the captain's armband around his bicep.

Benítez addressed the squad as they dressed.

"We've gone over the details in training. One last thing—be mentally prepared. This is going to be a grind."

He paused to meet their eyes.

"Their backline will sit deep. They'll make it hard to break through. Don't get frustrated. Be patient. This is a 90-minute match—we only need one goal to win."

The moment he finished, Gerrard stood up and spoke with fire in his voice.

"The boss is right. This is a 90-minute fight."

"Let's finish them in ninety!!!"

The roar from the Liverpool locker room was instant and electric.

They responded to Benítez with nods, but when Gerrard spoke—it was like the room took on a different energy.

He wasn't just their captain.

He was their leader.

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