Sir Alex Ferguson listened carefully to Denis Irwin's words, pondered for a moment, then nodded in agreement.
Less than seven minutes after Paul's goal, a Manchester United scout entered the stands and handed Ferguson a report.
The legendary manager studied it intently before reading aloud:
"Height: 177 cm, weight: 60 kg. Due to stamina limitations, unable to complete full matches."
"Convincingly persuaded United's youth management to loan him to QPR on a zero-wage deal."
"Despite minimal progress during loan, earned starting role through sheer work ethic by season's end."
"Yesterday's scouting footage highlighted exceptional vision and ability to create chances with through balls."
Denis Irwin knew Ferguson was analyzing his nephew.
United's youth system had flourished for decades, propelling the club to European elite status—not just through lavish spending, but via an unparalleled scouting network spanning La Liga, Bundesliga, and especially England, United's backyard.
"Exactly," Denis affirmed. "Having hosted MUTV for years, I can guarantee yesterday's training performance wasn't a fluke."
"His tackling needs work, but his anticipation and ball sense disrupt opponents effectively."
"Pair that with his through balls? He'd be perfect for Ronaldo. And you know United academy products—their fundamentals are always solid."
Ferguson remained silent, eyes locked on Claire below.
The Scot recognized an unmentioned flaw: With limited substitutions, a player lacking stamina faced grim prospects. The scout's verdict—*"limited upside"*—might prove accurate.
Claire cut a striking figure in QPR's blue kit—black buzz cut, golden skin, and a blue armband fluttering with each sprint. Only the gauze wrapped around his head marred the image.
"What happened there?" Ferguson gestured to the bandage.
"Oh, some Irish burglar cleaned out his savings last week." Denis feigned nonchalance. "Kid's too honest—could've played dumb and avoided the head injury. Doctors called it a mild concussion."
He watched Ferguson's reaction from the corner of his eye. The slight relaxation in the manager's expression told him everything—Ferguson always respected players who fought through pain.
On the pitch, Claire scratched irritably at his itchy bandage. Only his uncle's insistence kept it on. The sweltering heat worsened his natural stamina issues, leaving him borderline dehydrated.
Were it not for his system's 100% replication of Loftus Road's layout in his mind, he might've quit already.
But with every opponent's movement mapped in his consciousness, Claire grinned through labored breaths. This match meant everything—that United bench spot was step one in his grand plan.
Ferguson's frown deepened as Claire's movements grew sluggish. The report didn't lie: "Gifted interceptor with sublime touch, but physically incapable of lasting 90 minutes."
As fatigue set in, Claire's defensive lapses cost QPR possession. Denis clenched his fists—his nephew's stamina issues stemmed from childhood trauma, but football was the only path he knew to give the boy a future.
Yet Claire persisted, lungs burning, scanning relentlessly for openings.
Then—*"Ding!"*—a white trajectory arrow materialized in his mental HUD, pointing straight to goal.
Like a lottery winner spotting his numbers, Claire bolted into midfield, signaling frantically for the ball.
Teammates exchanged surprised glances but obliged, returning his gestures.
Up in the stands, Ferguson sighed and shook his head.
Denis winced—this was the opposite of what he'd pitched. Claire was supposed to be Ronaldo's provider, not some ball-demanding prima donna.
[Simp Diary]
He restricted me on social media. At first I was puzzled—people usually block family. Then it hit me: He sees me as family! Such attention to detail. I love him even more now.