The weight pressing on Sir Alex Ferguson's chest suddenly lifted. Beside him, assistant coaches Carlos Queiroz, Mike Phelan, and fitness coach Tony Strudwick embraced like giddy schoolboys.
After Ronaldo's goal, Claire didn't rush to join the celebration. Instead, he stood alone, bowing solemnly to all four corners of Old Trafford before bracing his hands on his knees, gasping for air.
His fans in the stands never stopped singing his song. Even the die-hard United supporters—aware that Claire's brilliance had set up Ronaldo's equalizer—roared their approval, though their words were lost in the chaos.
Ronaldo, electrified, sprinted around Arsenal's penalty area, pumping his left fist. As teammates swarmed him, he dropped to his knees, sliding across the grass in triumph.
"Tch. No wonder this guy has so many female fans," Claire thought, panting with a tired grin. "When I score, I'm stealing that celebration."
Amid the frenzy, Rooney pulled Ronaldo aside and muttered something in his ear.
Ronaldo's eyes flicked toward Claire—still isolated, still fighting to catch his breath.
"Hey! Brothers!" Ronaldo shouted, rallying the team. "I'm grateful, but we owe our real hero a proper welcome!"
Rooney watched Claire, head down and trembling, and felt a pang of sympathy. "He's young. He's one of us now."
Ronaldo spotted the fourth official's board: 5 minutes of added time.
He raised a fist. "Rooney's right! Let's crush Arsenal and throw our boy a proper party tonight!"
Rooney shot him a wry look but didn't argue. The squad roared in agreement. "CRUSH THEM!"
Arsenal's players, faces dark as ink, glared at United's sudden surge of confidence.
Claire, finally steady, rubbed his throbbing temples and trudged back to position. Ronaldo jogged over, clapping his shoulder. "I saw Fàbregas' cheap shot. Your head okay?"
"I'm fine! Five minutes left—let's end this!"
Nani, ahead of them, turned with a wild grin. "CRUSH ARSENAL!"
Claire, caught up in the moment, echoed the battle cry. "CRUSH ARSENAL!"
---
The Final Assault
As stoppage time began, Claire bit down hard, fighting off dizziness. Something was wrong—his vision swam, his skull pulsed.
But Arsenal, stung by the equalizer, charged forward. Fàbregas led the charge, flanked by van Persie. Their formation, once impenetrable, now had gaps.
United's midfield pressed hard. Nani harassed Fàbregas relentlessly; Ronaldo trash-talked in his ear: "You messed with the wrong kid. I'll make sure you regret it all season."
Fàbregas fired a diagonal pass to van Persie and sneered. "You're not winning today."
Van Persie carved through United's left flank, humiliating Michael Carrick with a nutmeg.
Ferguson, back in his seat, mused aloud: "A draw would've been enough to save face..."
Then van Persie blew past a second defender.
"Our midfield's a joke," Ferguson muttered to Phelan. "Next season, the board will pay for this."
Phelan smirked. He knew his boss's reputation—"The Iron Duke" didn't forgive slights. Gabriel Heinze's exile? Pure retaliation for his World Cup defiance.
A sudden roar from the crowd snapped Phelan from his thoughts.
"Bloody hell," Ferguson breathed. "Claire's reading the game like a veteran."
---
The Interception
Claire's vision doubled. Concussion.
Old injuries, new blows—his body screamed at him to collapse.
But van Persie was coming straight at him. Targeting him.
Claire bit his lip until copper flooded his tongue. "Sour. O-negative."
Ding.
His system's analysis flashed:
[Van Persie dribble success rate vs. you: 100%]
[Recommended counter: Left-foot poke, accelerate left.]
"...Fuck you too," Claire thought.
Van Persie smirked, accelerating. "Time to take back what's ours."
Then—
A flick of Claire's boot.
The ball was gone.
Van Persie froze, disbelief etching his face as Claire sprinted away. The crowd's jeers rained down.
"I just got stripped by a League Two nobody?"
---
The Miracle
Claire didn't look back.
He signaled his teammates—counterattack.
Ronaldo reacted first, a blur streaking toward Arsenal's half. Park Ji-sung, ever the showman, followed. Rooney, exhausted, lagged behind.
Claire's dribbling was fluid, effortless. Ferguson murmured, "Just like his father."
Then—
System failure.
Claire's HUD glitched, his vision tunneling. Blood pounded in his ears. Fàbregas' elbow, the thief's brick—it was all crashing down.
Ronaldo and Park were open, but Arsenal's defenders swarmed.
The ref raised his whistle.
"FUCK IT."
Claire shot.
The whistle blew.
Silence.
Only static in Claire's ears—beep... beep... beep...
---
MUTV Commentary Booth
Denis Irwin white-knuckled the desk, breath held as Claire lined up the shot.
"He's going for it—WAIT, THE WHISTLE—NO, HE SHOOTS!"
"A LOB! A BEAUTIFUL LOB!"
"IS IT—YES! GOOOOOOOOAL!"
"LAST-MINUTE WINNER! CLAIRE LEE!"
---
The Aftermath
Claire couldn't hear the eruption.
Couldn't hear Ronaldo screaming his name.
Couldn't hear 76,000 people losing their minds.
Only the static remained.
"I wanna do the slide too..." he mumbled deliriously at Ronaldo.
Then he took off, copying Ronaldo's celebration—kneeling at the edge of Arsenal's box, attempting the slide...
And failing spectacularly.
The grass refused to cooperate. Claire knelt there, stuck, as his teammates doubled over laughing. Park Ji-sung was wheezing.
[Note to self: Park's a dead man.]
Claire tried to stand—
THUD.
Jens Lehmann's clearance smashed into his skull.
Darkness.
---
Chaos
For a heartbeat, the stadium froze.
Then—
"LEHMANN DID THAT ON PURPOSE!"
The pitch became a warzone.
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