**7:15 AM – Carrington Training Complex**
The morning mist clung to the manicured pitches of Manchester United's training ground as Ethan Cross's Uber pulled up to the security gate. The driver—a City fan, judging by the faded sky-blue air freshener—gave him a look in the rearview mirror.
"Seriously? You?" the driver asked as Ethan fumbled with his wallet.
Ethan's fingers brushed against the laminated security pass Fergie had forced on him last night. The photo showed him mid-blink, his hair sticking up at odd angles from where he'd slept on it wrong. "Yeah. Seriously."
The guard booth window slid open with a squeak, revealing Mick—a gruff Mancunian who'd been working security since the Beckham era. His eyes traveled slowly from Ethan's scuffed sneakers to his ill-fitting club-branded polo shirt.
"Name?" Mick asked, though the clipboard in his hands was clearly just for show.
"Ethan Cross. I'm the new—"
"TikTok owner. Aye, I've heard." Mick's mustache twitched. "You're early. Players won't be in for another hour."
Ethan's phone buzzed violently in his pocket. The notification lit up the screen:
🚨 *EXCLUSIVE: Leaked emails reveal new United owner called current squad "overpaid TikTok merchants" in 2021 blog post* – The Athletic
Mick watched with amusement as Ethan's face drained of color. "Trouble in paradise already?"
---
**8:30 AM – First Team Dressing Room**
The smell hit Ethan first—a potent mix of liniment, leather, and expensive cologne. The room fell silent as twenty pairs of eyes locked onto him.
Bruno Fernandes leaned casually against his locker, phone in hand. "Ah. Our fearless leader." He turned the screen to face Ethan—the damning headline in full view.
Marcus Rashford's usual warm demeanor had been replaced by something colder. Even Donny van de Beek, who Ethan was pretty sure hadn't spoken two words all season, was glaring.
Ethan's dress shoes squeaked on the tiled floor as he stepped forward. "Look, about those emails—"
"You called us what?" Bruno's voice was deceptively calm, the way a bomb might tick just before exploding.
Raphaël Varane massaged his temples. "Mon Dieu."
In the corner, Jadon Sancho—who'd been quietly lacing up his boots—looked up. "Wait. Is it true you offered Rashy his bonus in Nando's vouchers?"
A beat. Then—
Rashford's lips twitched. "Extra peri-peri."
The tension shattered like a dropped water bottle. A few stifled laughs echoed off the tiled walls. Even Bruno's stern expression cracked slightly.
Ethan exhaled. Maybe he wasn't completely dead yet.
---
**11:00 AM – Fergie's War Room (AKA His Living Room)**
The study smelled of leather-bound books and 30-year-old Macallan. Sir Alex stood before a massive tactical board that looked like something from a police procedural, covered in newspaper clippings, printed emails, and enough red string to knit a sweater.
"Right," Fergie growled, stabbing a finger at a blown-up screenshot of the leaked email. "This wasn't an accident. This was a targeted strike."
Ethan squinted at the board. "You think the Glazers—"
"Of course it was the bloody Glazers!" Fergie's face turned that familiar shade of post-hairdryer crimson. "They want you rattled. They want the players against you. They want you to fail so they can say 'See? We told you football needs proper businessmen!'"
He flipped open a dossier labeled ENEMIES in bold Sharpie. Inside were meticulously organized tabs: "Board Members," "Agents," and—alarmingly—"Players Who Can't Be Trusted."
Ethan's stomach lurched. "So what do I do?"
Fergie's grin was all teeth. "We hit back where it hurts."
---
**1:47 PM – Old Trafford Press Room**
The flashbulbs nearly blinded Ethan as he stepped to the podium. The room was packed—every major outlet from the BBC to ESPN had sent reporters. He spotted Jim White lurking near the back, already salivating at the prospect of drama.
"Mr. Cross!" A Daily Mail reporter shouted over the din. "Do you stand by your comments calling the squad—"
"I was wrong," Ethan interrupted. The room fell silent. "I wrote that after the 5-0 to Liverpool. I was angry. Hurt. Because unlike some owners, I actually give a shit."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Ethan gripped the podium tighter.
"But let's talk about what really needs fixing—like why our medical staff is half the size of City's. Why our academy showers still only have cold water. Or," he paused for effect, "why the Glazers approved £200 million in dividends last year while our training pitches flooded every time it rained."
The room erupted. Jim White actually dropped his microphone.
---
**2:30 PM – Carrington Cafeteria**
The players clustered around a tablet streaming Sky Sports News.
"...in a stunning press conference, new Manchester United owner Ethan Cross launched unprecedented criticism of the Glazer family's ownership," the reporter said, before cutting to Ethan's mic-drop moment.
Bruno scratched his chin. "Huh."
Rashford smirked. "Ballsy."
Varane nodded slowly. "For a blogger... not terrible."
Even the usually silent Scott McTominay grunted in what might have been approval.
Ethan's phone buzzed—a text from an unknown number:
*Lowry Hotel. 8 PM. Come alone. -JG*
Joel Glazer wanted a word.
---