By late 2006, internet culture was booming across Europe and America—especially in the UK and US. And with YouTube quietly pulling strings behind the scenes, a video detailing Ronaldo's public apology at Panda & Sons finally surfaced online.
But Claire Lee, currently undergoing closed training with Manchester United, had no idea he'd become an overnight internet sensation—boosted by the "Ronaldo Wink Scandal" fallout.
At that moment, Claire stood at the edge of the training pitch, hands on his hips, gasping for breath.
United's fitness coach, Dee Salvo, watched him with a mix of pity and frustration. "What a shame… His lung capacity is really that bad?"
Carlos Queiroz, sitting on the bench, held up a chest X-ray against the sunlight, scrutinizing it. "How the hell did he even survive United's youth academy? He's gassed after just 10 minutes. No way he's fit to play against Arsenal."
Dee smirked. "He's playing whether he's ready or not. You think those sold-out tickets for the Arsenal match have nothing to do with him?"
Queiroz groaned at the mention of ticket sales. As Ferguson's right-hand man, he'd been dealing with the media circus surrounding the "Ronaldo Apology Incident" nonstop. If not for Ferguson being called into an emergency board meeting, Queiroz would still be fending off reporters at the gates.
The fact that United—once title favorites—had become tabloid fodder was entirely thanks to that damn kid, Claire Lee. And to make things worse, Peter Town, the renowned British music producer, had inexplicably endorsed Claire's song!
If Claire had been a footnote in traditional media, YouTube had turned him into the undisputed star of the whole saga. Two of the platform's top three most-liked videos were about him:
1. The grainy footage of his bar performance.
2. The clip of him drunkenly clinging to Ronaldo.
Those videos didn't just make him famous—they revived his song's popularity. And since no record label owned the rights, fans had no choice but to replay that shaky YouTube clip over and over.
Queiroz remembered clearly: Last night, the video had 1 million likes. By this afternoon, a reporter had asked him how United felt about having a player whose song had hit 4 million likes.
"That song's catchy, though," Dee admitted. "Half the crowd's coming to see Ronaldo's apology, the other half just wants to hear the kid sing. Hell, there's even an online petition demanding Claire perform post-match!"
Dee scratched his head, chuckling. "What's funnier is Denis Irwin turning down the board's offer to buy the song as the new club anthem. Malcolm's face turned purple!"
"Of course he refused! The song's nearing 10 million likes—everyone knows it's a hit now. My daughter texted me, begging me to make Claire quit football and go sing full-time."
Dee grinned. "I heard the lads aren't too happy about your 'closed training' order, either."
"Fk off, that was Ferguson's call!"
"I get it, though. It's to protect the kid. United doesn't need another Ronaldo-level distraction. If the media circus gets to him, who knows if he'll even remember he's a footballer?"
——
Meanwhile, Claire—dressed in red training gear—paced the sidelines, completely unaware of the two power brokers dissecting his future.
"Tch. So this is life as a backup?" He glanced at Park Ji-sung, already warming up to replace him in the scrimmage's second half. The bitterness was hard to swallow.
Park had joined United in 2005 for £4 million, and his salary—and status in South Korea—had skyrocketed since. Claire envied that.
Sure, he'd gotten more minutes than Park in today's practice match. But the truth was, no one passed to him. Even though Ronaldo was friendly, they were on opposite teams—and the reserves were just glorified training dummies for the starters.
Claire's jaw tightened as he watched Park jog onto the pitch. No one had spoken to him all day. If anything, the other backups seemed to be freezing him out—maybe because Ronaldo had personally brought him in.
Instead of joining the empty bench, Claire stayed on the sidelines, pushing through solo drills.
Then—Ferguson arrived.
The moment the gaffer stepped onto the pitch, the lethargic atmosphere vanished. Players who'd been lounging on the bench suddenly sprang to life, sprinting with renewed energy.
Ferguson, hands on hips, surveyed the scene with grim satisfaction.
"What did those money-grubbing suits want now?" Queiroz muttered as he sidled up.
"Those pound-stuffed pricks ordered me to start Claire against Arsenal. I told them to piss off! Since when do we sacrifice a player's career for short-term hype? The kid's got lung issues—he needs gradual integration, not a full 90-minute slaughter!"
Queiroz noticed Dee had slipped away to run fitness tests, leaving behind a manila folder on the bench. He handed it to Ferguson.
"You made the right call. I pulled Claire's medical records—his lung injury's healed, but prolonged sprinting's off the table. He's a specialist—a tactical weapon, not a full-time starter."
Ferguson took the folder but didn't open it. His expression darkened. "We'll keep him for Denis' sake, but we muzzle the media circus. If he gets swallowed by that world, I'll never face Denis again."
"After Arsenal, I'll design a custom regimen—see if we can stretch his stamina to 45 minutes."
"Good. It's not just sentimentality. His through balls could be lethal for us. This season's just starting—we'll ease him in."
——