As match time approached, Old Trafford—England's second-largest football stadium—buzzed with escalating energy. Fans streamed through turnstiles while players from both teams concluded their warm-ups and retreated toward their respective locker rooms.
The commentator boxes in the South Stand were unusually lively today.
Manchester United's owner, Malcolm Glazer, stood solemnly before the floor-to-ceiling windows, hands clasped behind his back, scrutinizing the swelling crowd. A small army of staff hovered behind him.
"Has Ferguson—or Denis—relented on playing Claire yet?"
His eldest son, Avram Glazer, stepped forward, frustration tightening his voice. "Ferguson insists Claire 'isn't match-ready.' And Denis? You know how he is—if he digs in, we can't force him. Not without backlash. He's still a club legend."
Malcolm's jaw clenched.
As a traditionalist, the Jewish magnate had long underestimated the internet's power—even United's official Twitter account had only launched under fan pressure. But three days ago, a YouTube video changed everything.
The clip of Ronaldo's apology had exploded, yet the real shock was the comments:
"Who's the guy singing?"
"Wait, he plays for United? Road trip to Old Trafford!"
When the uploader revealed Claire Lee was a United reserve, the digital frenzy morphed into a concert pilgrimage.
Malcolm hadn't cared—until 6-hour sellouts and secondary-market tickets scalping for triple face value slapped him awake. Sensing profit, he'd added 15,000 seats—only for Ferguson to storm into his office, Denis Irwin in tow, and veto the exploitation.
Now, Malcolm's fingers drummed against the glass. "If I can't sway Ferguson, maybe the fans can. Have our people stir the stands—demand Claire's appearance."
Avram nodded and slipped out with his entourage.
——
Across the stadium, in the MUTV commentary box, Denis Irwin adjusted his crisp suit, grinning at colleagues' ribbing.
"So? Gonna pull your nephew from football and cash in on that golden voice?"
Denis' smile didn't waver. "His dream's to be the next Ronaldo—did you miss that part of the video?"
"Speaking of Ronaldo—his PR team played you both. Used Claire to rebrand his 'bad boy' image."
The words punctured Denis' mood. He knew. Ferguson had warned him: Ronaldo's camp had orchestrated the "apology" spectacle, positioning Claire as the humble underdog to soften Ronaldo's arrogance.
In exchange? A guaranteed contract extension for Claire.
That promise alone had sweetened the bitter pill—until Warner and Sony came knocking, waving recording contracts. Denis had watched that low-quality bar video in disbelief. His nephew? A viral musician?
Then, last night, a high-definition version surfaced, filmed by a teen with a smartphone. The clarity confirmed it: Claire's raw talent was undeniable.
Yet Denis refused every offer. This was Claire's choice—not his. And fame's double-edged sword terrified him. For every young star who thrived, ten burned out.
Peering down at the packed stands, a chill crept up his spine.
"They say 30% of today's crowd came just for that song," a colleague teased.
"Better start calling him 'Uncle Bankroll'," another joked.
Denis forced a laugh, but his gut twisted.
——
On the pitch, warm-ups ended. As substitutes trailed toward the tunnel, Claire lingered, soaking in the electric roar of 76,000 fans—until a voice cut through:
"Claire! Over here!"
He turned, spotting a pocket of fans waving hand-painted signs: "SING FOR US!"
Before he could react, a hulking shadow blocked his path.
Jens Lehmann, Arsenal's goalkeeper, loomed like a provoked bear.
"Lucky you're benched, boy," Lehmann spat. "If you stepped on that pitch, I'd educate you with the ball—right into the stands."
Claire blinked. Then, with a shrug: "Weird flex, but okay."
He sidestepped Lehmann, leaving the German stewing in confusion as teammates howled with laughter.