Ethan Cross had always loved matchday. The smell of meat pies, the distant hum of chants rolling in from pubs, the click of boots on concrete. But now, standing in the tunnel of Old Trafford as the owner of Manchester United, he was learning something new.
Matchdays as a fan were a dream.
Matchdays as the owner?
A bloody pressure cooker.
He tugged at the collar of his blazer. Too tight. Too hot. Too many cameras. Too many eyes. The week had been a circus—thanks to what the media dubbed "McCabeGate." One stern dressing-down had somehow morphed into tabloid fantasy. He was painted as everything from a micro-managing lunatic to the second coming of Roman Abramovich (minus the trophies… or the army of lawyers).
And now, the moment of truth.
"Focus," Ethan muttered to himself, watching the players warm up. Rashford jogged past, expression locked in, earbuds tucked under a black snood. Bruno Fernandes was juggling a ball like it owed him rent. Jayden McCabe looked calm. Too calm. Suspiciously calm.
Ten Hag appeared beside him in the tunnel.
"I told them—no distractions today."
Ethan smirked. "Even me?"
"You are always a distraction," Ten Hag replied flatly, before walking off.
KICK-OFF
The opening twenty minutes felt like déjà vu.
Brighton zipped the ball around with elegance and arrogance. Ethan couldn't help but admire it—like watching jazz in cleats. Their midfield played like they were sharing one brain. Every United pass forward was met with two backwards. Every time they tried to press, Brighton passed through them like ghosts.
"Are we playing football or hide-and-seek?" Ibrahim muttered beside him.
"Right now, hide," Ethan replied, watching the clock crawl to the 25-minute mark.
Then came the first real break.
Casemiro crunched a tackle near the halfway line—a signature sliding chop that took the ball, the grass, and probably part of the player's soul. Mainoo picked it up, looked up, and zipped it to Bruno, who danced around his marker and slid the ball into Jayden's feet.
And that's when something changed.
McCabe didn't just turn—he glided. A flick behind the heel, a feint, then a burst into space. He drew gasps from the crowd as he ghosted past two Brighton players before laying it off to Garnacho.
The shot went over. Just.
But Old Trafford woke up.
37th Minute – The Breakthrough
United worked the left side. Shaw overlapped, fed Bruno at the edge of the box. He stood the ball up, eyes scanning, waiting.
And then—zip.
A reverse pass into the corridor of doubt. Rashford burst through the channel, one touch, bang. Low into the bottom corner.
1–0, Manchester United.
Rashford didn't celebrate wildly. He jogged to the touchline, nodding slightly—eyes scanning the director's box. Ethan caught it.
A signal. A message.
We're listening.
HALF-TIME
In the dressing room, sweat hung heavy in the air. The buzz was calm, focused.
Jayden sat with his shirt half-off, downing water.
"Good," Ten Hag said, pointing around the room. "Not perfect. Not finished."
He tapped the tactics board. "We control now. They will press harder. Cas, don't drop too deep. Rashy, run inside. Jayden…"
Everyone looked at the winger.
"You lose the ball? Win it back. You see space? Take it. I don't want safe. I want dangerous."
Jayden gave a small smirk. "I'm allergic to safe, boss."
The room chuckled.
Even Ten Hag smiled—barely.
SECOND HALF
Brighton responded like cornered animals.
Wave after wave of attack crashed on the United box. Dalot made two goal-line clearances. Onana palmed away a rocket from João Pedro. The tension rose with every minute.
Ethan paced the box like a man who lost his remote.
"Do they have thirty players on the pitch?" he asked no one.
"They've got one and a half midfields," Ibrahim replied. "That's cheating."
Then, the moment came.
Casemiro again won the ball—this time higher. A toe-poke to Mainoo, who swivelled like a ballerina and played it forward. Bruno, as always, was the connector. One look. One pass.
Jayden ran.
Like hell.
The ball dropped perfectly in stride. The Brighton keeper charged. McCabe slowed… then chipped it—delicately, almost lovingly—over the keeper and into the net.
2–0.
Old Trafford exploded.
McCabe stood still, arms spread wide. The cameras zoomed in.
No wild celebration. No sliding. Just a look into the stands… then into the director's box.
Ethan's phone buzzed immediately.
A DM from Jayden:
"That enough standards for you, boss?"
Ethan replied with a thumbs-up emoji.
And a goat.
Obviously.
FULL TIME
2–0. A clean sheet. A complete performance.
The fans applauded—not with rage or relief—but pride.
That rare emotion Old Trafford hadn't felt in years.
Ethan didn't jump or celebrate. He just nodded.
One match wasn't a resurrection.
But it was a resurrection moment.
POST-MATCH
Ten Hag faced the press with steely grace.
"Jayden played with freedom. Marcus played with hunger. This is the beginning, not the end."
One reporter asked, "Was this performance a response to last week's headlines?"
Ten Hag nodded. "Every player responded how we want—on the pitch. And off it? They trust the direction."
"From the manager or the owner?"
Ten Hag blinked.
"Both."
LATE NIGHT
Ethan sat in bed, highlights looping on his screen.
Jayden's chip.
Rashford's run.
Bruno orchestrating like a conductor.
A text from Sandra, the PR head:
Fan sentiment up. Media praise flowing. Jayden trending (for the right reasons). Enjoy this. Monday's another war.
He smiled.
Then replied:
Let 'em come. We're starting to look like United again.