Cobham Training Base. Scolari's Office.
The Brazilian coach stared at his computer screen, his eyes burning with fury as he read the latest headlines. The press conference for the FA Cup third-round clash had just concluded. Initially, Scolari had considered it just another routine cup fixture. He hadn't given much thought to Luton Town—despite their strong form in League Two. After all, they were still a fourth-tier club in the grand scheme of English football.
But what had truly infuriated him were the comments made by Luton's head coach, Ethan.
For the media, Ethan's Chelsea connection added an extra layer of intrigue. Having previously coached Chelsea's U18 side, his name provided a compelling narrative. Naturally, reporters steered the conversation towards his former club, and Ethan played along effortlessly.
"...Is Deco really suited for Chelsea? Perhaps only Scolari still believes in him. There's no denying Deco's talent—he made an immediate impact upon arrival. However, the relentless physicality of the Premier League has left him struggling. In the West London derby, he attempted 53 passes but conceded possession 14 times. He simply cannot cope with high-intensity pressing. And yet, despite these issues, he remains a guaranteed starter..."
Scolari clenched his fists. Deco was central to his tactical vision. He had wanted both Deco and Robinho, but Manchester City had swooped in for the latter. In the end, Chelsea had only secured Deco, making him the cornerstone of Scolari's system.
Now, Ethan had publicly questioned Deco's effectiveness, effectively dismissing Scolari's footballing philosophy. The disrespect was intolerable.
"...Scolari is trying to implement a Brazilian-style approach at Chelsea. But unless he fields eleven Brazilian players, I don't see how it will succeed."
"...I don't think we'll stop at the third round. Chelsea are strong, but in a knockout match, anything is possible..."
With a growl of frustration, Scolari slammed his laptop shut.
"That arrogant upstart!"
He stormed out of his office, agitated. His team was already dealing with enough problems—this was the last thing he needed.
Meanwhile, across the Mediterranean, a gentle breeze drifted over Abramovich's yacht, which floated serenely on the sea. The Chelsea owner, enjoying a moment of peace, skimmed through the latest English football news.
Then, he came across Ethan's remarks.
"...The biggest problem for Chelsea is having an owner who loves to interfere despite lacking football expertise. Shevchenko was never a tactical fit for Mourinho, yet Abramovich insisted on signing him. The same can be said for Ballack. These weren't decisions made by the manager. Abramovich treats Chelsea like a billionaire's toy—new and exciting for a few years, but what happens when the novelty wears off? When the checkbook closes, Chelsea will face an unimaginable crisis..."
Abramovich's expression darkened.
"...With Abramovich in charge, Chelsea fans should brace themselves. His money, funneled through secret channels, has propelled Chelsea to glory. But just like an addictive drug, it comes with dire consequences..."
Ethan's words weren't revolutionary—criticism of Abramovich's ownership was nothing new. But coming from an active manager, even one in the lower leagues, gave the media something to latch onto. And with Luton set to face Chelsea, the press would pounce on this story, hyping it to the extreme.
Abramovich sighed and removed his reading glasses. If it were just an ordinary pundit spouting off, he wouldn't have cared. Many Chelsea fans themselves had criticized his decisions over the years. But Ethan was different—he was a head coach, and this controversy would dominate the headlines.
He could already envision tomorrow's tabloids sensationalizing the narrative. England's media thrived on drama, and this story had everything—betrayal, rivalry, and a brash underdog challenging a footballing giant.
Abramovich's once-peaceful evening was now ruined.
He picked up his phone and dialed Scolari.
Scolari frowned when he saw the caller ID. He disliked dealing with the Russian owner, but he had no choice. Reluctantly, he answered.
"I don't like the Chinese coach at Luton, Mr. Scolari," Abramovich said, his voice laced with irritation.
"Neither do I, sir," Scolari replied curtly.
"There can be no mistakes in this match. I want that man silenced!"
The line went dead.
Scolari exhaled sharply. The pressure was mounting, and Chelsea had no room for error. This FA Cup tie had just become personal.
"Don't worry, sir, there's nothing wrong with this game."
Scolari curled his lips. It was just a second-division team, and yet the Russians were making a big deal out of it.
What a fuss!
Although Scolari was irritated, he didn't believe that a second-division side could pose any real threat.
Angering a lion is never good for Luton!
"I want a dominant victory!" Abramovich said through gritted teeth.
Scolari remained silent for a moment. He had originally planned to rotate the squad for this match. The English media had always criticized him for his poor squad rotation, and this seemed like the perfect chance to prove them wrong.
"As you wish, sir..."
Hanging up the phone, the Brazilian coach's face darkened, deepening the wrinkles on his forehead.
Meanwhile, Ethan, known for rarely making controversial remarks in the media, did not hold back at the pre-match press conference. He took direct shots at Chelsea, sparing neither Scolari nor Abramovich.
Many who knew Ethan were surprised. He was usually calm and composed in front of the press, never one to stir up unnecessary drama.
To some, this seemed like an act of revenge—payback for being sacked by Chelsea.
But Ethan had no such thoughts.
He had climbed the ranks from the bottom, battling his way to the top. To him, this was just another challenge—child's play compared to what he had faced before.
His real goal? To provoke Abramovich and Scolari. If either of them took the bait, Chelsea would likely go all-out in the match, throwing everything forward to crush Luton.
And that was exactly what Luton wanted—a Chelsea side focused solely on attacking, leaving gaps at the back.
If Deco starts, even better…
Ethan was looking forward to tomorrow's game.
"What's the point of provoking Chelsea, Mr. Ethan?"
As Ethan returned to his apartment from the training ground, he ran into Roy at the door once again.
Right… She just finished her shift after the press conference.
"Point? This is a declaration of war, Miss Lowe!"
Of course, Ethan wasn't foolish enough to reveal his real strategy to a journalist. Reporters were never reliable—who knew if she'd leak it?
"Then why were you never like this in the second division?"
Ethan stopped, smirking with disdain.
"Because they were too weak."