Ethan Cross had been warned.
"Football isn't just played on grass," Ten Hag had told him, handing him a battered old chessboard one evening at Carrington. "Some games are played in silence, and the losers don't even realize they've been beaten until they're already checkmated."
Today, Ethan was about to find out exactly what that meant.
The executive meeting felt wrong the moment he stepped into the Old Trafford boardroom. Normally, the chatter of small talk—holidays in Monaco, stock tips, complaints about hotel Wi-Fi—would fill the air before meetings officially started.
Today?
Nothing.
Just stiff smiles and colder eyes.
Even the free coffee tasted suspiciously like defeat.
Ambush, Boardroom Style
Ethan tossed his club jacket over the back of his chair, took a leisurely sip of his suspiciously burnt coffee, and waited.
He didn't have to wait long.
Peter Lawford—the human embodiment of a bad LinkedIn post—cleared his throat dramatically.
"Ethan," Lawford began, voice slicker than a used car salesman pitching a lemon. "Firstly, let me congratulate you on the weekend's performance and the positive press that followed."
Ethan nodded, pretending not to notice the but that was already winding its way toward him.
"But," Lawford continued, "several directors feel… concerned about the pace of operational changes."
Harold Dunbridge, seated two chairs down, leaned forward as if trying to physically loom over Ethan. He always did that. It never worked.
"With respect," Harold rumbled, "you're making decisions—footballing, financial, public relations—without consulting the board thoroughly. It risks destabilizing the long-term business structure."
Translation:
We're losing control, and we don't like it.
The Coup Attempt
Sandra, seated beside Ethan, shifted uncomfortably, clicking her pen like a warning signal.
Lawford slid a document across the gleaming table, his movements slow and theatrical, like he was presenting a royal decree.
Ethan glanced down.
Proposal: Establishment of Executive Oversight Committee
Purpose:
Review all major operational decisions.
Approve or veto football-related activities over £1M.
Formalize communication between owner and executive leadership.
He read the fine print.
Translation:
Strip Ethan of real power without actually removing him.
The blood in Ethan's veins ran hot.
Still, he forced himself to breathe slowly. Calmly. Like Ten Hag advised after their chess games: Patience wins wars faster than passion.
"Let me get this straight," Ethan said, voice light but razor-edged. "You want to put a leash on me."
Harold cleared his throat. "It's about safeguards."
"Safeguards?" Ethan laughed under his breath. "The same 'safeguards' that let United become a laughingstock? The same 'oversight' that led to us signing players who thought 'pressing' was a laundry service?"
Sandra snorted into her coffee. Quickly disguised it as a cough.
Peter flinched but rallied. "Ethan, we're just protecting the long-term interests of Manchester United."
Ethan stood, slow and deliberate, the leather of the chair creaking behind him.
"No, Peter. You're protecting your long-term interests."
He tapped the club crest on his chest — the red devil glinting under the fluorescent lights.
"This badge deserves better than bloated consultancy fees, yacht party deals, and being treated like a bloody cash register. The fans know it. The players feel it. And the press smells blood every time you open your mouths."
Peter went pale. Harold shifted uncomfortably.
"You think you can outmaneuver me because I'm young? Because I'm new? Because I still remember why this club matters to normal people?" Ethan's voice sharpened to a blade. "I didn't spend my life dreaming about profit margins. I spent it dreaming about United lifting trophies."
He pushed the document back toward them, the paper sliding across the polished table like a fallen knight on a chessboard.
"So here's my counter-proposal:
If you want to run a football club the old way…
Find another one."
Silence.
Then Sandra, God bless her, chimed in, perfectly deadpan:
"Shall I print that on the next batch of corporate letterheads?"
Aftermath
As Ethan stormed out of the boardroom, the corridors of Old Trafford echoed with the clip of his shoes—and the distant rumble of revolution.
He texted Ibrahim as he walked past the Hall of Legends.
"Snakes tried to wrestle control. Flattened them with words. Need ice cream."
Ibrahim replied almost immediately:
"Two scoops or three, General Cross?"
Ethan grinned despite himself. Maybe he should put Ibrahim in charge of morale.
Back in his office, Ethan flopped into his chair, looking at the framed photo on his desk—an old snapshot of a young Ethan standing outside the stadium, wearing a battered Rooney jersey, grinning like he'd won the lottery just for breathing Old Trafford air.
He tapped the glass.
"We're gonna fix this," he muttered. "One snake at a time."
But deep inside, he knew this wasn't the end.
It was just Round One.
The old guard would rally. They'd dig up dirt, spin stories, leak nonsense to the tabloids.
Ethan Cross was ready.
Because unlike the suits?
He didn't care about money first.
He cared about Manchester United.
And he wasn't afraid of a fight.