The match surged on—no pause, no breath.
Morecambe were already on the front foot again.
Ronaldinho picked up the ball near halfway and carried it forward, shoulders shifting, hips swaying. Juninho watched from the sideline, eyes locked on the midfielder's feet—every touch tight, every move decisive.
Two Wigan players stepped to him.
Two were left behind.
It was classic South American flair—body feints, rhythm, the ball dancing under control. The crowd groaned, half in awe, half in panic.
That's why he cost ten million, Juninho thought, lips pressed together in focus. And he's still not near his ceiling.
But just as Ronaldinho reached the edge of the final third, he laid it off left to Beach. The angle was there. The overlap was perfect.
But the cross…
Too close to the keeper.
The Wigan goalkeeper leapt, grabbed it clean, and the moment flipped—defense into offense. Just like that.
Juninho didn't flinch. He'd coached long enough on this island to expect the snap transitions. British football at this level thrived on chaos and second balls.
Morecambe's red shirts surged forward to press. They boxed Wigan into their own half, smothering the options. The goalkeeper hesitated—then hoofed it long.
No surprise.
Straight toward Jones.
Juninho's eyes narrowed.
Wigan's striker adjusted under the ball, body coiled. He was going to try again.
He has to, Juninho thought. He knows he can't keep losing.
But it didn't matter.
Vidic was there—again.
This time Jones leapt early, trying to beat the pressure. He didn't even aim, just wanted to win something in the air.
Boom.
Too late.
Vidic arrived like a wave—timed, controlled, and violent in its precision. The header was clean. Dominant. Dismissive.
Jones hit the ground harder than he wanted to. When he looked up, Vidic was already jogging back into shape. Not a word. Not a glance.
Jones turned and jogged away, but Vidic mirrored every move, staying just close enough to remind him: I'm not going anywhere.
Juninho didn't celebrate. He just smiled.
This was how games were won—not with goals, but with control.
He glanced over at Ryan Lane, his longtime assistant. The older man had been skeptical of Juninho's appointment, cautious with praise, more loyal to Morecambe's history than its future.
"You see it now, don't you?" Juninho said quietly.
Lane chuckled, raspy. "It's all your doing. I'll admit that much."
Juninho folded his arms. "How far do you think this team can go?"
Lane coughed, paused. "I don't know... but with you here, I think I can dream again."
"I want to take you to the Premier League," Juninho said. "But not just that."
He nodded toward the pitch.
"I want you with me when we walk into the San Siro. The Camp Nou. The Bernabéu. When Morecambe stand across from Milan or Barcelona, I want us standing there together. Chatting. Laughing. Belonging."
Lane smiled, a bit glassy-eyed. "Well, I just hope I live long enough to see it."
"You will," Juninho said, not missing a beat.
Then his gaze returned to the match.
---
Across the stadium, the VIP suite had gone quiet.
A dozen club owners—League One, Championship, even a few scouts from Premier League fringes—sat still, nursing half-drunk coffees and forced neutrality.
No one wanted to be the first to speak. Not after what they'd seen.
Finally, one voice broke the silence.
"That Vidic kid… four million, right? Picked up this summer?"
A few heads turned.
"Yeah," someone muttered. "Four million. Serbian. Nineteen."
A pause.
Then a different owner frowned. "Four million on a defender in League One? Are they drunk on oil money?"
"Maybe not," the first one replied. "If he keeps playing like this… Morecambe could flip him for ten, fifteen. Easy."
The room shifted. No one wanted to say it out loud, but the question hung in the air:
Where are they finding these players?
One owner scratched his jaw.
Whoever's scouting for Morecambe... we need his number.
---