The match between the Red Devils and the fierce Gunners of Arsenal kicked off as usual.
When Cristiano Ronaldo and Wayne Rooney stepped onto the pitch side by side, the atmosphere at Old Trafford reached its peak. Even Claire, walking at the back of the team with his head down, was met with a wave of cheers.
Claire, baffled, cautiously turned to look at the stands—only to be immediately blinded by a barrage of camera flashes.
Click! Click!
As the players took their positions, the commentators for MUTV, Manchester United's official TV channel, wasted no time diving into their analysis.
"Wow, look at the media frenzy over our new signing! Dennis, any thoughts?"
Dennis Irwin, sitting with his hands neatly folded on the desk, replied calmly, "That handsome lad must have something special about him. After all, his uncle is quite the looker too!" He stroked his chin smugly after delivering the line.
Meanwhile, Claire, still in the player tunnel, wasn't having as smooth a time.
Ferguson, already on the sidelines, heard the crowd erupt in laughter and turned to see Claire—like a complete rookie—standing frozen, shielding his eyes from the relentless flashes.
Queiroz rushed over and, without an ounce of mercy, kicked Claire square in the backside. "Move your ass!"
"Uh—right!"
Claire scurried after Queiroz like a scolded puppy.
"Coach… why are they taking pictures of me?"
"You really don't know?"
Sulking on the bench, Claire muttered to himself, "Is this some kind of hazing ritual? Shouldn't Ronaldo be the star today?"
Thanks to the "Ronaldo's Post-Match Apology" storyline, the game had drawn media from across the UK. The energy at Old Trafford was electric, with even the occasional hecklers quickly drowned out by the home crowd.
Then the whistle blew, and none of that mattered anymore. Claire's attention, like everyone else's, snapped to the game.
Rooney, fresh off his five-goal demolition of Fulham, took the opening kickoff.
From the first second, United's frontline and midfield surged forward in attack. But Arsenal's young guns—Van Persie and Fàbregas—answered with a blistering counter.
"Oho! Looks like Arsenal's youngsters aren't too happy with Ronaldo's comments! Van Persie's already double-teaming him with the left-back!"
Dennis Irwin leaned into the mic. "Breakaway! Breakaway! Rooney's not giving up! Nani and Rooney linking up beautifully in midfield!"
"Tevez and Ronaldo are bogged down in defense, but Rooney's putting on a one-man show!"
"Oh—unlucky!" Irwin groaned, covering his eyes as Arsenal's Gaël Clichy intercepted Rooney's pass.
His co-commentator, Taro, quickly chimed in. "Arsenal under Wenger thrive in a 4-4-2. And Clichy's pace is no joke. Ronaldo might be confident, but we can't underestimate the Gunners!"
On the bench, Claire lounged with his legs crossed, watching the game with detached amusement. It wasn't that he lacked passion for United—it was just that, as a newbie, his opinions didn't matter much.
His daydreaming was abruptly cut short when Ferguson, hands on hips, bellowed from the touchline:
"FK! Scholes, MOVE! Help Ronaldo! I need the attack firing! Did you forget everything I taught you?!"
Paul Scholes, a product of United's youth academy, immediately bolted like a rabbit after Van Persie. But the Dutchman effortlessly flicked the ball over him and charged toward United's half.
"Tch. Arsenal's as sharp as ever," came a voice beside Claire. "Heard you came through United's academy too?"
Claire turned to see Park Ji-sung sitting next to him. Claire's impression of South Korea wasn't the best, and Park's pre-game flirting with models hadn't helped. He gave a noncommittal nod.
But Park wasn't deterred. "Hey, you know you're famous now, right? That song of yours is everywhere."
"My song? Famous?" Claire blinked, confused—until the memory of his drunken karaoke night flooded back.
"I'm famous?" He pointed at himself, stunned.
Park wasn't surprised. The whole team knew Claire was a "nepo baby," and the club had shielded him from the media frenzy. But Park also recognized Claire's untapped potential. Even Ronaldo, at his peak, hadn't single-handedly boosted ticket sales like this.
"Yeah! You'll definitely play today. Get ready." Park gave him a knowing look, then jogged off to warm up.
Claire stroked his chin. "So that's why Arsenal hates me? I stole their spotlight?"
On the pitch, the battle raged on. Ronaldo, now leading the charge, had the media buzzing. Rooney, playing decoy, even signaled tactics to him.
"Heard you're using us as a stepping stone?" Fàbregas taunted as he marked Ronaldo.
Ronaldo ignored him, scanning for an opening. But Fàbregas kept yapping.
"Trying to climb over Arsenal? You asked me yet, you traitor?"
When Abou Diaby stole the ball, Fàbregas turned to the crowd with a dramatic shrug. "Oops! Lost your toy!"
The Arsenal fans roared.
Ronaldo shoved him. Fàbregas flopped like he'd been shot.
"Looks like Fàbregas' trash talk got under Ronaldo's skin!" Irwin growled.
"But Ronaldo held his tongue early. The pressure's getting to him."
"Yellow card! Arsenal got what they wanted—a free kick. Let's hope—"
Before they could finish, the stadium erupted. Rooney had walked over to Ronaldo, whispering something that made Ronaldo grin and pat his backside.
"Seems our boy's apology worked!" Irwin said slyly.
"Arsenal might just be our whetstone after all!" Taro added with a wink.
Claire, biting his nails, wasn't surprised. Rooney, as captain, had to keep the peace—especially after Ronaldo's public apology.
But Claire had a sneaking suspicion: Win or lose, neither Ronaldo nor Rooney will show up for the post-match press conference.
He smirked.
Then, just before halftime, disaster struck.
Emmanuel Adebayor, Arsenal's "Mr. Clutch," broke through United's defense with a solo run that left everyone in the dust.
Claire's jaw dropped. "No fking way! They actually scored?!"
Ferguson exploded. (The exact words can't be printed here.)