If Claire had completely blacked out from last night's drunken escapade, it might have been easier to handle. But the worst part? He remembered everything with crystal clarity.
Every cringeworthy word he'd said, every embarrassing moment—just thinking about it now made him want to dig a three-bedroom apartment underground with his bare toes and disappear.
Sir Alex Ferguson sat in his office, legs crossed, staring at Ronaldo and Claire with a mix of exasperation and disbelief.
Who would've thought that a reserve player—one who hadn't even played a single match yet—would gift Manchester United such a spectacular first impression?
Ferguson's assistant, Carlos Queiroz, held a thick stack of newspapers, eyeing Claire with amusement. He hadn't been present during Claire's trial, but the moment someone mentioned "Denis Irwin's nephew," every member of United's management knew exactly who he was. After all, during that terrorist attack years ago, Denis Irwin had sacrificed his own sister for football. If anyone in Manchester United owed him a debt, it was an undeniable fact.
So Queiroz had paid close attention to Claire's arrival. And what surprised him most was how this kid had broken the ice in the locker room at the most awkward possible time. As an assistant, Queiroz was all for it—but watching Ferguson pretend to be furious almost made him laugh.
"I don't know how the hell you two ended up in this mess together," Ferguson growled, snatching a copy of The Sun from Queiroz and flinging it at Claire.
"Manchester United's Locker Room Tensions Eased—Ronaldo Vows to Apologize Publicly After Defeating Arsenal."
Claire winced at the headline but stayed silent, bowing his head. What could he say? The £15-million-a-year superstar beside him wasn't speaking up, and Claire—a reserve player with a three-game contract—had no right to argue.
Ronaldo, standing stiffly next to Claire, remained expressionless. He'd known the moment he apologized in that bar that the media would explode. But he didn't regret it. If he hadn't done it, the guilt would've eaten at him forever.
Thinking this, Ronaldo let out a long sigh in the otherwise silent office.
Ferguson's eye twitched. "The match against Arsenal is in two days," he snapped, jabbing a finger at Ronaldo. "If we lose, you're finished."
"We won't lose," Ronaldo said firmly, meeting his mentor's gaze with unwavering confidence.
Claire barely suppressed an eye roll. If his memory served him right, the upcoming Arsenal match was likely to be United's first defeat of the season. Poor Ronaldo, he thought. You have no idea what's coming.
Yet Ronaldo and Ferguson continued their dramatic staredown, full of mutual understanding. Finally, Ferguson clapped Ronaldo on the shoulder. "You'd better not screw this up."
"Now get out of my office and go train."
"Me?" Claire blinked, pointing at himself in disbelief. He still had two days of leave left! His uncle had mentioned the Arsenal match, but Claire hadn't planned on joining the main squad so soon—he hadn't even played a friendly yet!
"Yes, you," Ferguson snapped, waving him off. "Finish those three matches and get the hell out of my club."
Claire opened his mouth to protest, but Ronaldo grabbed his arm and dragged him out.
"Let's go."
"Where?"
"Training."
From the office window, Queiroz watched them leave, muttering under his breath, "Same old routine. Scare them first, then dangle a carrot. What's the point?"
Ferguson smirked. "Worked on you back in Madrid, didn't it? If I hadn't kicked your ass out of that slump, where would you be now?"
Queiroz coughed awkwardly. "By the way, that song of Denis' nephew? Absolute banger. Malcolm Glazer called an emergency board meeting this morning—wants to buy the rights for the club anthem."
Ferguson raised an eyebrow. "That's huge. Why didn't you tell him? Kid deserves some good news."
"It's for his own good. If he finds out now, his ego'll be unbearable."
As the two debated, assistant coach Mike Phelan burst into the room, panting.
"Tickets for the Arsenal match—sold out! Fans are rioting outside the stadium!"
Ferguson's relaxed expression vanished. "Great. Just what we need—more pressure."
He stood abruptly. "Recall all players. Confiscate their phones. We're going into full lockdown for the next 48 hours!"
Phelan nodded grimly and rushed out.
Queiroz, meanwhile, was still staring at United's ticketing website in disbelief. "Since when does a song sell out Old Trafford? Times have changed..."
He glanced at his phone, flooded with desperate messages from friends begging for tickets, and sighed. "At this rate, you won't even need to renew his three-game contract."
Behind him, Ferguson stroked his chin, silent.
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