**8:17 AM - Ethan's Flat, Salford Quays**
The morning light streaming through Ethan's threadbare curtains revealed the aftermath of last night's frantic research. His studio flat looked like the war room of a particularly deranged football manager. Empty Pot Noodle cups formed defensive formations around his laptop. A whiteboard (stolen from his old office job) displayed a hastily scrawled "Transfer Targets" list that included:
1. Haaland (obviously)
2. "That French kid from FIFA"
3. "Maybe recall Lingard?"
4. "Check if Scholes is still fit"
Ethan peeled his face from his keyboard, wincing as the keys left indentations on his cheek. His mouth tasted like stale beer and poor life choices. His phone screen illuminated with:
- 63 missed calls (including 12 from unknown numbers with Middle Eastern country codes)
- 327 Twitter notifications
- A voicemail from someone claiming to be "Paul Pogba's spiritual advisor and also a Nigerian prince"
He scrolled through his incriminating search history from the previous night's panic session:
✓ "Actual steps to buy football club"
✓ "Can you pay transfer fees in installments?"
✓ "FIFA Financial Fair Play for dummies"
✓ "Why do all football agents look like they sell fake Rolexes in Ibiza?"
✓ "How to look rich in meetings (quick tips)"
The fridge contained:
- One expired yogurt (bearing a label that read "Best Before: Last Title Challenge")
- Three warm cans of Stella Artois
- A Post-it note from Danny in increasingly frantic handwriting: "YOU'RE RICH NOW - STOP EATING LIKE A STUDENT YOU ABSOLUTE MELT"
---
**10:45 AM - Sterling Wealth Management, Mayfair**
The office smelled like mahogany, expensive cologne, and quiet disdain. Julian Cavendish-Smythe III (the "III" was embossed on his £500 business cards in gold leaf) examined Ethan over his half-moon glasses like a biology professor observing a particularly disappointing specimen.
"Let me see if I comprehend this... situation," Julian drawled, his Received Pronunciation so crisp it could cut glass. "You wish to purchase one of the world's most valuable sports franchises... using money you inherited... from an uncle whose existence you were unaware of until 48 hours ago... who may or may not have been involved in... what precisely during the Ferguson era?"
Ethan shifted uncomfortably in his chair, suddenly hyper-aware that his "smart" shoes were actually a pair of slightly scuffed Vans he'd wiped down with a wet wipe in the Tube station bathroom. "He, uh... sent me Christmas cards? With crisp £20 notes inside?"
Julian sighed the sigh of a man who regularly charged £800/hour to deal with idiots and pulled up a spreadsheet titled "How to Get Absolutely Bent Over by the Glazers (A Primer)."
"Your options, such as they are," Julian began, adjusting his cufflinks, "Option A: Pay £6 billion in cash, which you don't have. Option B: Sell what remains of your soul after supporting United these past ten years." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Or Option C—" his voice dropped to a whisper, "—we tell them you're an anonymous Qatari consortium and hope they don't ask too many questions."
---
**2:30 PM - First Phone Negotiation with Joel Glazer**
Ethan's hands were sweating so profusely he nearly dropped his phone three times before the call connected.
"Joel Glazer." The voice was pure New Jersey hedge fund - equal parts bored and vaguely threatening.
"Hi Mr. Glazer! Big fan of your... financial... uh... stewardship?" Ethan cringed at his own words.
There was a long pause. "You have five seconds to convince me not to hang up and sell to the Saudis for 10% more."
Ethan's brain short-circuited. "I'll throw in free stadium naming rights! The... uh..." His eyes darted to the empty Pot Noodle cup on his desk. "The Pot Noodle Arena at Old Trafford?"
The line went dead with a click that seemed to echo through Ethan's suddenly very empty bank account.
---
**3:02 PM - Twitter Meltdown**
Ethan's phone began vibrating uncontrollably as Twitter exploded:
**@FabrizioRomano:** 🚨 BREAKING: Manchester United reject £4.5bn + "lifetime supply of Monster Energy" offer from Cross. Saudis preparing £6bn bid. Sources confirm Cross offered to rename South Stand "The Wetherspoons End" #MUFC
**@Carra23:** Just analyzed Cross's negotiation tactics. My dead Labrador could do better. And he thought "tiki-taka" was a type of coffee.
**@UtdElla_69:** NEW OWNER SAME OLD SHIT #CrossOut TREND THIS
Then came the DM that made Ethan actually whimper:
**@MarcusRashford:** Boss... my agent just showed me your message asking if I'd accept 20% of my wages in Nando's vouchers. We need to talk.
---
**5:45 PM - Emergency Crisis Meeting at Nando's, Old Trafford**
Danny slammed his hands on the table hard enough to make the cutlery jump. "You offered them MONSTER ENERGY? As ACTUAL CURRENCY?"
Ethan defensively clutched his mango and lime drink. "In my defense, it was the sugar-free Ultra White! The premium stuff!"
Danny buried his face in his hands. "We need an actual adult. Like, someone who knows what a 'balance sheet' is."
Ethan drew himself up to his full height. "I am an adult! I have... bills! And a... Nectar card!"
Danny slowly raised his head and gestured at Ethan's outfit - a "Champions 2008" commemorative t-shirt with a suspicious ketchup stain over Rio Ferdinand's face. "Mate. You're wearing a shirt older than some of our academy players."
Their waiter approached with forced cheerfulness. "Gentlemen, would you like to try our new—"
Ethan suddenly stood, eyes wild. "I'LL BUY YOUR ENTIRE CHICKEN SUPPLY! NAME YOUR PRICE!"
Danny yanked him back into his seat. "He doesn't mean that."
Ethan whispered, "Do I?"
---
**8:30 PM - The Cavalry Arrives**
Sir Alex Ferguson's Cheshire mansion loomed behind wrought iron gates, the driveway lined with rose bushes that probably cost more than Ethan's entire education. The doorbell played the first few bars of "Glory Glory Man United" at a volume that suggested it was also a security deterrent.
The door swung open to reveal Fergie in a burgundy dressing gown, holding a glass of red wine that probably cost more than Ethan's car. "Aye?"
Ethan's mouth went dry. "Hi Mr. Ferguson, sir, I just wanted to—"
"Call me Fergie or get off my property," the legendary manager interrupted, taking a sip of wine.
"Fergie!" Ethan squeaked. "I maybe sort of accidentally bought United? Or I'm trying to? The Glazers hung up on me when I offered naming rights to my future firstborn?"
Fergie's eyebrows climbed his forehead. Then, unexpectedly, he grinned. "I like you, son. Come in." As he turned, he muttered, "Christ, this'll be more entertaining than that bloody Super League nonsense."
As they entered the palatial foyer (Ethan nearly tripped over an actual Premier League trophy being used as a doorstop), Fergie's phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and scowled. "Bloody Glazers." He answered with: "Aye, he's here. No, you can't have seven billion. Piss off." The phone was slammed down with enough force to make a lesser man wince.
Fergie turned to Ethan, suddenly all business. "Right, son. First lesson: Never let the players smell fear... or that cheap Lynx Africa you're wearing."