CHAPTER 121

Ethan found Liverpool's starting XI sheet. He stared at it in silence, a mix of excitement and disbelief flickering in his eyes.

Liverpool fans hadn't been thrilled with the club's direction this season. Discontent was brewing—not just because of inconsistent performances, but also because the summer transfer window had passed with barely a ripple. The supporters had expected major signings, but the club's spending was modest at best.

Following a relatively successful 2007–08 campaign, manager Rafa Benítez made minimal changes to the squad. Partly due to a restricted transfer budget, and partly because Benítez believed the existing team could go a step further. Over the summer, Liverpool's dealings were subdued. They picked up Philipp Degen on a free from Borussia Dortmund and signed Andrea Dossena and Albert Riera. Robbie Keane arrived from Tottenham in a big-money move but was sold back just six months later. There were also lower-profile additions like Hungarian goalkeeper Péter Gulácsi and young prospects from continental Europe.

Several key departures hit the squad's depth. John Arne Riise left for Roma, Harry Kewell joined Galatasaray on a free transfer, Peter Crouch went to Portsmouth, Steve Finnan headed to Espanyol, and Jermaine Pennant was on his way out.

From the outside, Liverpool's transfer strategy looked lackluster—selling reliable players and bringing in unproven names. Unsurprisingly, the Anfield faithful were unimpressed.

But Ethan saw something different.

To him, this Liverpool side—under Benítez—was perhaps the strongest the club had fielded in nearly two decades. Despite a dip in form, Pepe Reina remained a top-tier goalkeeper, far more reliable than his future successor Simon Mignolet. In defense, Jamie Carragher's leadership combined with a resurgent Martin Škrtel offered stability. Álvaro Arbeloa and Fabio Aurelio were functional, if unspectacular, full-backs.

It was the midfield, though, that was truly world-class.

Benítez's "midfield triangle" had perfect balance: Xabi Alonso, the metronome, dictated the tempo with precision passing; Javier Mascherano, the relentless ball-winner, broke up attacks and protected the back four; and Steven Gerrard—operating just behind Fernando Torres—was the team's heartbeat, combining vision, shooting power, and leadership.

On the flanks, Dirk Kuyt's work rate was tireless, and the newly acquired Albert Riera added width and crossing threat. And up front, Torres was lethal—a striker who could win matches single-handedly.

In Ethan's eyes, this team had the makings of a Champions League-winning side. Compared to the mediocrity that crept into Liverpool's squad in subsequent years, this was a golden moment before the clouds rolled in.

…

"In truth, the runner-up still gets to play in the Europa League," said Lin Sen, standing beside Ethan, watching him study the lineup with intense focus.

"I know," Ethan replied.

"But that's not enough. Winning the final and completing this season on a high note—that's our goal."

Lin Sen nodded. He understood. Perfectionism was a common trait among top managers, and Ethan was no different.

"But Liverpool is… a whole different level," Lin Sen muttered under his breath.

Ethan's expression darkened slightly.

He knew it too.

The footsteps of the players echoed outside the locker room. The match was imminent.

When they returned from the warm-up, the room fell eerily quiet. Too quiet.

Ethan could feel it—the nerves. Before the warm-up, the atmosphere had been upbeat. Now, tension hung in the air. His players were nervous. And understandably so. None of them had ever played in a final. This was Luton Town—a second-tier side—about to go toe-to-toe with one of Europe's giants.

Liverpool, after all, had lifted the Champions League trophy in Istanbul just a few seasons ago, overturning a 3–0 deficit against AC Milan in one of football's greatest comebacks.

Experience? There was no comparison.

But Ethan wasn't going to let that weigh them down.

He clapped his hands loudly, drawing everyone's attention.

"Is anyone afraid of Liverpool?" he asked calmly.

The players looked at him, unsure of how to respond.

"If you are, raise your hand," he continued.

No one moved.

Of course not.

To admit fear now would be to admit weakness.

And this team, whatever else they lacked, had no shortage of heart.

"I said—we are going to win the FA Cup!"

Ethan's eyes were sharp, his voice calm but full of unwavering confidence.

"I wasn't just throwing words around!"

"We can beat Liverpool! Just like we beat Chelsea! Just like we beat Manchester City! And just like we beat Arsenal!"

Around the room, the players straightened up. Every match their manager mentioned was etched in their memories—moments of glory that defined their season.

Victory—it's intoxicating.

"Do you remember when Liverpool lost to Chelsea at Anfield?" Ethan raised three fingers. "Three goals! Chelsea put three past them!"

"They were knocked out of the Champions League because of that!"

"And us?" Ethan's voice dropped, but his words struck harder. "We beat Chelsea 2–0. We didn't let them score even once!"

Confidence now burned in his expression. His eyes, cold and piercing, swept across the dressing room like a storm. The players could almost feel his gaze on their skin.

"If we can beat Chelsea, we can beat Liverpool too!"

Some players looked hesitant. They understood football isn't transitive. Just because Luton beat Chelsea and Chelsea beat Liverpool, doesn't guarantee Luton can beat Liverpool. The pitch doesn't follow arithmetic.

"I know what you're thinking," Ethan said, catching their doubt. "Football isn't a math problem." His eyes lit up with passion. "But that doesn't mean it's random either!"

"What those results do show is this: When we step onto the pitch against Liverpool—we are not the underdogs! We can threaten their goal! We can score!"

"And our defense? It's solid. Drogba couldn't break through us—not once! Don't forget that!"

The players began to nod, conviction replacing hesitation.

"These ten days of closed training—did we do that to show up at Wembley and play a friendly?" Ethan's voice rose like thunder.

"No! We've prepared for this! Every session, every drill—it was all for this!"

"We're not just going to Wembley—we're going to make them remember us!"

He paused, then bellowed,

"Whatever happens—we're bringing something back from Wembley!"

"I hope it's the FA Cup trophy!"

"We don't settle for anything less!" Ethan roared, walking among his squad, fist raised.

"We are fighting for the championship!"

It was the kind of speech that might've seemed over-the-top in another setting. But in this locker room, before this final—it hit home.

"We are fighting for the championship!"

The players rose as one, fists to the sky, hearts ablaze.

It felt like their collective will could punch a hole right through the heavens.

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