In football, halftime shows rarely steal the spotlight—unless it involves the league's iconic "Pitchside Angels" strutting their stuff.
But today at Old Trafford?
The rules didn't apply.
Thanks to the unprecedented hype, a swarm of Britain's most glamorous models had volunteered to perform—no invitation needed. Leading the pack was Lucy Pinder, the nation's most infamous (and generously proportioned) football darling.
The moment Lucy stepped onto the sideline, the stadium erupted. Wolf whistles. Roaring chants.
Yet instead of offense, Lucy's smirk only grew.
This gig was a miracle for her.
In the cutthroat world of football glamour, landing a slot at a title-contending club's match was near-impossible without... connections. Which was why Lucy still couldn't believe Denis Irwin—MUTV's lead commentator and Claire Lee's uncle—had personally requested her.
"What's his angle?" she'd wondered. But with career opportunities this juicy? She'd take the sugar now and deal with the poison later.
Dressed in United's signature red, Lucy and her squad of models cranked up the heat with every hip sway, sending the crowd into frenzied cheers.
——
Meanwhile, inside the locker room...
Claire Lee was miserably failing at being subtle.
Pressed against a fogged-up window, his nose practically glued to the glass, he stared at Lucy's... performance with the focus of a sniper.
Drool? Check.
Unintentional slurping noises? Oh, absolutely.
The tense pre-second-half huddle dissolved into laughter as Claire's audible "Hnnng" echoed through the room.
Even Ferguson, mid-tactical rant, paused. For a second, the gaffer looked ready to strangle his young reserve—until he remembered the media storm awaiting Claire if today went south.
With a theatrical eye-roll, Ferguson sighed. "Christ. At least someone's enjoying themselves."
Wayne Rooney, ever the instigator, seized the moment. "Oi! Rumor is our baby-faced assassin here's never had a girlfriend. So his dear uncle allegedly called in a favor—got the FA to send Lucy freaking Pinder as a... motivational tool."
The locker room exploded.
Ronaldo, grinning, strolled over and playfully punched Claire's chest. "Score two more, and I'll convince the boss to sub you in. Deal?"
Before Claire could react, Rio Ferdinand—all 6'2" of him—lumbered over and repeated the gesture. "Make it three, and I'll fake an injury to free up your spot."
Rooney, cackling, slung an arm around Claire. "Lads! Let's get our boy laid—I mean, laid into the game!"
——
Fifteen minutes later, as players returned to the pitch, Claire trudged behind, rubbing his sore chest.
"The hell's with this 'punch the rookie' ritual? No wonder we're losing—"
"Claire!"
A melodic voice cut through his grumbling.
There, leaning over the tunnel railing, was Danielle Sharp—the Panda & Sons bar heiress whose viral video had made him famous.
Claire's spine straightened. "You."
Danielle smirked. "Remember my name?"
"Danielle Sharp. I never forget a pretty face." (His eyes, however, were firmly studying her loose jersey's neckline.)
Unfazed—flattered, even—Danielle leaned closer. "You're playing today. Bet on it."
Claire tugged his numberless jersey. "Unless they magic up a kit for me, doubt it."
"Then let's wager. You play, you take me to dinner."
"I'm basically indentured labor right now," Claire groaned. "Can't even piss without club approval."
Danielle winked. "Too bad. I'm your unofficial fan club president now. That video made you—and me—famous."
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