They quickly finished their food and were walking out of the canteen when they ran straight into an acquaintance.
"Ling! My man! Where you been hiding?"
Marcus Rashford, his former roommate of three years, pulled him into an enthusiastic hug.
"I saw the friendly. Looked sharp," Ling said, raising an eyebrow. "Been putting in extra work, haven't you?"
"How could I? I'm still an innocent young man," Rashford pouted, pretending to be offended. "Not like McTominay here."
"Innocent? You?" McTominay scoffed. "I saw you sneaking out with Mary last week. What's that about, eh?"
Rashford's eyes went wide, and he quickly tried to cover McTominay's mouth.
"Shut up, man!"
"Mary?" Ling's expression turned to one of disgust. "Tom's daughter from the shop at the gate? Isn't she, like, 18? You cradle-robber."
As the three joked around, the general chatter in the canteen suddenly died down.
Ling looked up.
The first team had arrived.
Ibrahimovic, Pogba, Lingard, Lukaku, Rojo... The sheer star power was blinding.
This squad was luxurious, boasting a hundred-million-pound star and the Swedish god who was a tactical system all by himself.
Ibrahimovic, leading the pack, caught Ling's eye and gave a slight, respectful nod.
The big Swede was known for being good to the youth players, often sharing advice on runs and finishing.
His domineering personality made him a role model for nearly everyone in the academy.
The group passed by.
McTominay watched them go, his expression pure envy.
"God... imagine being Zlatan," he sighed.
"Stop that," Ling said firmly, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're 21, not 40. Stop sighing. You've got the talent. Believe it."
"Yeah... yeah, you're right," McTominay said, clenching his fist.
The bullying he'd endured as a kid still left seeds of doubt.
...
After returning to the dormitory, McTominay collapsed onto his bed.
"Get up," Ling said, pulling on a fresh training top.
"What? We just finished."
"We've got extra work. Let's go."
Ling dragged a drowsy McTominay back out to pitch number nine.
They weren't the only ones; many youth players chose to do extra training in the afternoon.
Most people weren't born geniuses; they had to close the gap with sweat.
...
Time flew by.
Hours later, as the sunset began to dye the sky red, Ling finally called it a day.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, his lungs burning.
'System,' he thought, breathless.
'Dribbling: 79.04 (97)'
'Passing: 68.12 (83)'
'Shooting: 69.06 (95)'
The numbers had only ticked up by fractions, but Ling felt a rush of exhilaration.
A visible progress bar... it was the ultimate motivation.
He wished there were 48 hours in a day.
'Patience,' he reminded himself.
'Scientific training. Overtraining leads to injuries. I've learned that lesson.'
He smiled, full of anticipation for the future.
After a quick shower and dinner, Ling didn't head back to the dorm.
He grabbed his second-hand mountain bike and started pedaling.
He was heading to Barlow RC High School, 10 kilometers away.
Most of the academy lads attended St. Bede's College, right next to the training base.
But the 12,000-pound annual tuition was impossible for Ling's family.
So, he chose Barlow.
The original Ling, obsessed only with football, had barely studied and failed to even get his A-Level certificate.
The new Ling knew better.
Studying wasn't just a safety net; it improved his tactical understanding.
He was even minoring in Spanish.
'Might go to La Liga one day,' he thought. 'Best to be prepared.'
He greeted a few friends and walked straight to the corner of the classroom—the typical "sports student" seat.
"Today, we'll talk about..."
Three hours later, Ling rubbed his sore temples.
He wasn't tired.
He was more determined than ever.
He had endured the real world once; a little extra schoolwork was nothing.
...
The next day, the training ground was quieter.
The first team had flown out for their International Champions Cup tour in North America.
For the U21s, however, the real work was about to begin.
Assistant coach Rui Faria gathered the players on the pitch, a tactics board tucked under his arm.
"Alright, listen up."
The joking stopped. Everyone went silent.
"Tomorrow is the Premier League B opener. We're at home, against West Ham."
A few players shifted nervously.
"Don't underestimate them just because their first team is struggling," Faria continued.
"Their academy is a factory—Ferdinand, Carrick, Lampard. They've got this young defensive midfielder, Declan Rice, who's just been named Player of the Season. He's their engine. We need to shut him down."
Faria pulled out a clipboard.
"Starting lineup is as follows..."
He read through the names.
"Goalkeeper, O'Hara. Back four, Mitchell, Tuanzebe..." He paused. "...McTominay. Midfield, Gomes..."
Ling held his breath.
"And on the left wing... Ling."
Ling let out his breath slowly, trading a quick, excited wink with McTominay.
"Don't get comfortable," Faria said, his voice cold and stern—a perfect Mourinho impression.
"You play badly, you're off. I don't care if it's the fifth minute. Understood?"
"Yes, coach!" they all yelled.
"Good. Now, tactics." Faria drew on the board. "We stay compact. We frustrate them. We deny Rice any space. The main attack will be down the left. Ling, you'll be the outlet. We hit them on the counter, and we hit them hard. It will be a defensive counter, but the goal is to be decisive. Maximize our efficiency. Any questions?"
No one spoke.
The plan was clear.
It was classic Mourinho and Ling was at the very heart of it.