September 25th, Noon – Old Trafford Press Conference Room
The air inside the press conference hall was heavy with anticipation. Though the conference wasn't set to begin for another half hour, every seat was already filled, and latecomers found themselves shunted to makeshift benches hastily lined up along the aisle. The atmosphere buzzed with curiosity, tension, and something that felt suspiciously like bloodlust.
Reporters from Britain's most prestigious outlets were present. The Daily Telegraph, The Times, and The Guardian were seated in the front row. Patrick Wolfe of The Sun — notorious for his venomous pen — had muscled his way to the front as well, while Hall of the Manchester Evening News sat in quiet tension, his notepad unopened.
Even the lowest-tier tabloids had clawed their way into the building, each desperate to witness what many were calling "the most unexpected apology in Premier League history." What could force the fiercely proud Tiger King to lower his head?
That question echoed through the murmurs that filled the room.
Wolfe couldn't contain his smug anticipation. "Gentlemen, I tell you, this is history. Tiger King, the man who bites back at every slight, who never yields — today, he bows. I've waited a long time for this."
Caroinek from The Telegraph raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that, Wolfe? This is a man who hosts weekly darts tournaments and treats them like FA Cup finals. He once challenged me over a disputed bullseye." He chuckled. "I don't think Tiger King knows how to lose, not even for fun."
Toynbee of The Guardian nodded. "He won the darts game last week. Celebrated like he'd lifted the Champions League."
Wolfe's face twitched. The darts again.
He hadn't been invited to Tiger King's now-infamous weekly darts tournament. Reporters from nearly every outlet had received an invitation—except him. For Wolfe, it was personal. It wasn't just about journalism anymore. Tiger King had made him an outsider, and in response,
The Sun had declared war. They printed every piece of criticism they could find or manufacture, lambasting the manager for his arrogance, his stubbornness, and his bold claims at the start of the season.
"And where are those big words now?" Wolfe sneered. "He talked about winning the Treble. And what's he got now? Injuries everywhere. A fragile squad full of veterans. He's teetering. It's better to fall with dignity than to be humiliated at the end."
Leslie from The Times smirked. "Still, you've got to admit, signing that 'Jump in the River' contract was a stroke of tabloid genius. Whether Tiger King wins or loses, The Sun sells papers."
Wolfe beamed. "Oh, he'll jump. Whether he likes it or not."
In the corner, Hall of the Manchester Evening News remained oddly quiet. Toynbee glanced over. "You alright, Hall? You've barely said a word."
Before Hall could respond, Wolfe jeered. "He's a United man. And his golden boy is about to be humbled on national television. Maybe it's time you start writing for City Weekly, eh?"
The tension was palpable. Then — a shift.
The doors opened. Woodward, the club's CEO, strode into the room, followed closely by Tiger King.
The reporters sat up straighter, their chatter fading into expectant silence.
"Woodward? At a League Cup pre-match presser?" someone whispered.
Twenty-five minutes earlier, Tiger King had been walking the corridor toward the press room when he spotted Woodward waiting for him.
"I've been expecting you," Woodward said, arms crossed, grin cocky.
Tiger King raised an eyebrow. "What, you're coming to the presser too? It's just a League Cup match, not the Champions League Finals"
Woodward leaned in. "When I read your statement this morning, I knew I had to see this in person."
"You don't trust me?"
"Trust? No. I expect fireworks."
Tiger King chuckled. "Hope I don't disappoint you."
"You never do."
Now, under the sharp lights of the press room, Tiger King and Woodward took their seats at the podium. No players were present — the afternoon kickoff meant the squad was resting. But no one cared. The media were here for one man only.
For ten seconds, the room was silent.
Then, Tiger King smiled slyly. "It seems no one has questions today. If that's the case, I'll be going."
He pushed back his chair. Woodward was astonished 'What's this? The press conference is over. What a joke!'
"Wait!" Wolfe jumped up from the second row. "Mr. King, I have a question!"
"Phew! I took a break specially for this!" thought Woodward anxiously waiting for the show.
Tiger King eased back into his seat. "Ah, Mr. Wolfe. The king of gossip columns himself. Ask away."
A few reporters snickered. Wolfe ignored them. "Yesterday, you told reporters that your comments about 'double-killing Liverpool' were over the top. That you wanted to sincerely apologize to Mr. Rodgers. Is that still true?"
Tiger King nodded. "Indeed. You have a sharp memory, Wolfe. Must be a Mensa member, yeah?"
Laughter broke out again. But Wolfe pressed on. "Then please explain. Why the apology?"
Tiger King leaned forward, unscrewing his water bottle with deliberate calm. "I met Mr. Rodgers at an FA preseason event where Ferguson was awarded the Lifetime Achievement Award. He was gracious. Experienced. I was new. And in my youthful enthusiasm, I said what everyone remembers — I promised to beat Liverpool twice in the league. Then came that infamous river-jumping contract."
He paused for a sip. Every eye was fixed on him. "These past few days, I've reflected. Was it too bold? Too careless? Perhaps. And so, yes — I apologize to Mr. Rodgers for speaking too soon."
Wolfe pounced. "So you're withdrawing the bet, then? Given your squad's injuries?"
Tiger King set down the bottle. "Let me be clear. The 'special circumstances' I mentioned have nothing to do with injuries. And no — I am not withdrawing the bet."
"I am amending it."
A hush fell over the room. Wolfe frowned. "Amending? In what way?"
Tiger King's eyes gleamed. "I realized something. This season, we don't just face Liverpool twice. There's the League Cup. The FA Cup. Who knows what the draw holds? And that means one thing…"
He rose to his feet. "I didn't go far enough."
He slammed his fist lightly on the table for emphasis. "I hereby revise the wager: Every single time Manchester United meets Liverpool this season — league, cup, whatever — we will defeat them. Every time. If we don't, the river-jumping clause still stands. I double down. And I do it with full awareness."
The room exploded into chaos. Reporters scrambled to file their stories, typing headlines before the presser even ended:
"Tiger King Declares War: 'We Will Beat Liverpool Every Time'"
"Red Alert: King Doubles Down on River Bet"
"Rodgers vs King: The Blood Feud Begins"
Across town, inside the Liverpool team bus enroute to Old Trafford, Brendan Rodgers was watching the live stream on his phone.
At first, he was smug. He'd heard Tiger King was set to apologize. But as the manager's words turned, so did Rodgers' mood. His hands began to tremble.
"OFFENSIVE! OFFENSIVE ALL OVER!" Rodgers roared, launching his clipboard across the bus. "We crush them today! I want him to regret this! I want him to tremble at the sight of a Liverpool badge!"
His players stared in stunned silence. They had no idea what had just set their manager off.
But the truth was clear to everyone watching:
Tiger King had not apologized. He had issued a challenge!
Elsewhere – Carrington Training Ground, Players' Lounge
The Manchester United first-team squad had gathered around the wide-screen TV in the lounge. Training had ended, but no one had gone home. The staff had delayed lunch just so they could watch the press conference unfold live.
The moment Tiger King made his declaration — that they'd beat Liverpool in every match this season — the room went absolutely mad.
"YESSSS!" yelled Rooney, punching the air. "That's our Gaffer!"
Lingard jumped onto the couch, arms out like he'd just scored a last-minute winner at Anfield. "He's lost his mind — in the best possible way!"
Kante was laughing with tears in his eyes. "Mon dieu!
Alonso added, "He just said every time? That's not a bet, that's a crusade!"
Phil Jones sat frozen for a second, still absorbing what had just happened. Then, quietly, he muttered, "I should've trusted the Gaffer."
Giggs, leaning against the wall with arms folded and a smug grin, shot him a look. "See? Told you. The man doesn't blink. Even under fire, he escalates."
Carrick, calm as ever, poured himself some water. "It's one thing to calm a storm. It's another to ride it straight into battle."
Van Persie, still recovering from a knock, chuckled. "Good thing we play Liverpool in a few hours. Or I'd have to go start a fight in the car park to make it happen."
Shinji Kagawa, watching with wide-eyed admiration, whispered in Japanese, "He's not a manager… he's a warlord."
From the corner, Nemanja Vidic — his knee still wrapped and iced — cracked a rare, approving smile. "I'd follow him into hell."
The room quieted for a beat after that. Not solemn, but steeled.
Fletcher, eyes gleaming, sat forward. "Then let's make sure he doesn't jump into that river. Let's give him the whole ocean instead."
The squad roared with laughter, slapping backs, throwing cushions, and rallying together with an energy that had been missing since the derby defeat.
Tiger King hadn't just answered the media. He had reignited his army.
Meanwhile… at home
Victoria stood frozen in front of the TV screen, her arms crossed and brows furrowed. The press conference was still playing, Tiger King's voice echoing through the room with its usual swagger and storm.
She'd watched every second.
Last night, she couldn't sleep. Not because of any noise, but because of the silence beside her. Tiger King had collapsed into bed long after midnight, exhausted, face pale and lined with stress. She had spent hours just watching him — heart aching — while he slept like a man carrying a mountain.
The night before, at the dinner table, she had tiptoed around her words. Every sentence weighed and measured. She didn't want to add pressure. Didn't want to remind him of the media, his apology, the injuries, the doubts creeping in from pundits and fans alike.
She'd been worried. Genuinely, deeply worried. But now?
Now, watching him grin like a chess-master in a war room, flipping his so-called apology into another bold declaration of war — her jaw dropped, and then slowly clenched.
That bastard.
He wasn't on the ropes. He was playing tricks again.
Victoria's expression hardened. She pointed at the screen like she was swearing an oath.
"You're dead when you get home."
She turned the TV off.
Then paused. Waited.
"Actually… I'll see how the match goes first."
She sat back down on the couch, arms still crossed.
"But if you lose…" she muttered, narrowing her eyes at the darkened screen, "Hmph!! Let me get the kids first before the match begins."