**8:17 AM – Carrington Training Ground**
The morning mist clung to the manicured pitches like a shroud, muffling the sound of Ethan's shoes crunching over the gravel path. His breath came in visible puffs as he approached the players' entrance, the usual media scrum conspicuously absent. No camera flashes, no shouted questions about the leaked documents. Just an unsettling silence broken only by the distant caw of a crow.
Then he saw it.
Taped at eye-level was a single sheet of paper - a perfect replica of the Haaland transfer veto document, the "CONFIDENTIAL" stamp still visible in angry red ink. Beneath it, scrawled in black Sharpie:
*"Know your place. #NotYourClub"*
Ethan's fingers trembled slightly as he peeled it off, the paper cold from the morning damp. The edges were perfectly cut, no wrinkles or folds. Whoever left this had access to professional equipment. And to Carrington after hours.
---
### **THE DIVIDED DRESSING ROOM**
The scent of muscle rub and fresh laundry hit Ethan as he pushed through the double doors. The usual pre-training banter was absent. Instead, players clustered in tight groups like rival factions at a peace summit.
Bruno sat alone on the physio's table, his phone casting a blue glow on his face as he scrolled through The Athletic's exposé. Rashford and Varane spoke in low French by the lockers, their body language tense. Even Sancho, usually holding court with his signature cackle, was uncharacteristically quiet, earbuds in, eyes fixed on his cleats.
Ethan cleared his throat. "Morning, lads."
A few murmured replies. McTominay gave a tight nod. Most didn't look up from their phones.
Then—**McTominay**, of all people, broke the silence. His Scottish brogue cut through the tension: "Is it true then? They really binned Haaland over some fucking instant noodles?"
A few nervous chuckles. Ethan exhaled. *An opening.*
"Not just binned," Ethan said, moving further into the room. The floor tiles felt ice-cold through his thin soles. "They took money from Raiola to avoid signing him. Then told the fans it was 'sporting reasons.'"
The room stirred. A water bottle hit the floor with a plastic clatter.
Bruno finally looked up, his dark eyes unreadable. "And you just happened to have these files lying about?" The Portuguese accent made the question sound even more accusatory.
"Reg left them," Ethan said, leaning against the treatment table. The leather was cold beneath his palms. "Along with proof they've been syphoning money out for years. But if we move too fast—"
Rashford uncrossed his arms, his United hoodie rustling. "What else is in there?"
Ethan hesitated. The weight of twenty pairs of eyes pressed down on him. *Too much too fast could backfire.* "Enough to bury them. But I need time to—"
The door banged open. Mick the security guard stuck his head in. "Gaffer wants everyone on the pitch in five. And Cross?" He held up a buzzing phone. "Your lawyer's called three times."
---
### **THE GLazers' COUNTERSTRIKE**
**11:23 AM – Ethan's Phone Buzzes During Training**
Ethan stood on the sidelines, watching the squad run drills under a slate-gray sky. His phone vibrated violently in his pocket. A notification from Sky Sports:
🚨 *BREAKING: Man United list Rashford, Fernandes & Sancho as "available for transfer." Club sources cite "need for fresh direction" amid ownership turmoil.*
The training ball hit the crossbar with a metallic ping as Ethan's stomach dropped. Across the pitch, Rashford paused mid-sprint, his agent already calling.
**Danny's Text:** *They're calling your bluff. If players see their mates getting sold, you lose the dressing room for good.*
Ethan was already sprinting toward the parking lot, his training shoes slipping on the wet grass.
---
### **THE STANDOFF**
**12:55 PM – Glazer Offices, London**
The elevator doors opened directly into a boardroom that smelled of lemon polish and power. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a panoramic view of London, the Shard gleaming in the distance.
Joel Glazer sat at the head of a polished mahogany table, scrolling through an iPad. He didn't look up as Ethan entered. "You're tracking mud on my carpet."
Ethan glanced down. His grass-stained trainers left faint green smudges on the plush ivory fibers. "Pull them off the list."
Joel finally looked up, his smile as genuine as a three-pound note. "Or what? You'll leak more files?" He took a deliberate sip of espresso. "The league won't act in time to stop the sales."
*He was right.* The Premier League moved at a glacial pace. The transfer window? Fourteen days.
Then—**an idea.** Ethan leaned forward, his palms flat on the cold tabletop. "What if I send the Singapore loans, the Haaldand payoff, and the 2015 tax filings to the SEC? How fast do American regulators move, Joel?"
The espresso cup hit its saucer with a sharp clink. For the first time, Joel's smirk faltered.
---
### **THE PLAYERS' PACT**
**6:45 PM – Rashford's Home Theater**
The scent of buttered popcorn and leather seats filled the private cinema room. On screen, Artedo was giving some impassioned speech to his Arsenal squad. Rashford muted it as Ethan entered.
Bruno sat stiffly in the front row, still in his training gear. Varane leaned against the back wall, arms crossed. Sancho was conspicuously absent.
"We talked," Bruno said, his voice carefully neutral. "If they sell one of us, we all submit transfer requests."
Ethan's breath caught. *That was nuclear.* The kind of move that could collapse a club's season before it began.
Rashford tossed the popcorn bag aside. "We're done being assets on a spreadsheet."
Varane studied Ethan with those calm, experienced eyes. "But we need to know—are you fighting with us or just using us?"
The question hung in the air between the plush seats. On screen, Arsenal celebrated some forgotten victory in silence.
Ethan met each of their gazes in turn. "I stood in the Stretford End when we lost to Cardiff in 2014. I'm a fan first. Same as you."
Bruno held his stare for three long heartbeats. Then, slowly, extended his hand.
---