On the sidelines, Faria was scribbling notes onto his tactical board.
'His final chip was technically superb. Beyond youth-team level,' he wrote.
But his internal thoughts were more complex.
'What's truly surprising is the composure. Mitchell's pass was slightly overhit. Most kids would panic, either over-run it or blast it at the keeper. Ling... he slowed down. He waited for the keeper to commit. That's not skill, that's intelligence.'
As a veteran coach, Faria knew.
You could drill technique.
You couldn't drill that kind of ice-cold imagination.
'Still,' Faria thought, closing his notebook.
'A good performance. But he's not first-team qualified. Not yet. Kid, what else have you got?'
...
Thousands of miles away, in the sweltering heat of North America, another man was watching a very different game.
International Champions Cup: Barcelona vs. Manchester United.
Just three minutes in, Rashford broke free on the right and fired a low cross.
Lukaku, sliding in, somehow managed to sky the ball over the crossbar from six yards.
From that moment on, Barcelona dictated everything.
Messi, Suarez, and Neymar—likely playing together for the last time—were a blur of perfect, intuitive combinations.
In the 12th minute, Messi received the ball, dropped his shoulder to send both Pogba and Carrick the wrong way, and unleashed a curling shot from the edge of the box.
CLANG.
The ball hammered off the right post.
De Gea, who hadn't moved, broke into a cold sweat.
Mourinho stood on the sideline, arms crossed, his face like stone.
He was furious.
This was the level he had to conquer.
And this Barcelona, a team that hadn't made it past the Champions League quarter-finals in two seasons, was running rings around them.
If they couldn't even compete with this team, how could they ever hope to challenge Real Madrid or Bayern?
The transfer window was open, but his hands were tied.
He needed a winger with pace and a final product—someone like Perisic or Bale.
But after spending 130 million on Matic and Lukaku, the club's pockets were empty.
He turned his gaze back to the pitch, his brow furrowed, just in time to watch Mkhitaryan try to take on Jordi Alba.
Alba simply closed him down, applied a strong shoulder, and Mkhitaryan crumpled.
The full-back strode away with the ball and launched a long pass to Messi.
Messi controlled it effortlessly, shook off Carrick, and slid a perfect through ball.
Neymar darted in front of Valencia and coolly slotted it into the far corner.
1-0, Barcelona.
Mourinho sighed, a low, frustrated hiss.
'This is what I spent 42 million on?' he thought, his jaw tightening.
'23 goals and 32 assists in Germany... and he can't even hold his ground against a full-back.'
Mkhitaryan just couldn't adapt.
The slightest physical pressure and he vanished.
His other winger, Martial, was a center-forward by trade and couldn't provide the sustained explosive impact he needed.
Mourinho's entire system—the concise, rapid counter-attack—depended on acceleration from the wings. Right now, he had none.
The match ended 1-0. It wasn't even close.
...
Back at the AON Arena, the game was nearing its end.
United, holding a two-goal lead, had reverted to a full-team defense, building an impenetrable wall.
West Ham, for all their possession, couldn't find a way through.
Worse for them, they had to be terrified of the counter.
The effect was brilliant.
United's players, smelling blood, would win the ball and immediately, in unison, look for Ling.
As a result, West Ham's press died.
Their full-backs hesitated to bomb forward.
Their key man, Declan Rice, had to instinctively drift to that side just to help Luis, his full-back, who was now terrified of being one-on-one.
With Rice pulled out of position, West Ham's attack died completely.
[Utterly boring! But Ling's performance has been excellent. Hope he gets the call-up.]
In the 90th minute, West Ham won a corner.
Rice delivered it to the far post.
Tuanzebe, in a rare lapse, lost his man, and a West Ham defender headed it in. 2-1.
But it was too little, too late.
The referee blew the final whistle.
The Manchester United youth team had secured the victory.
Ling followed his teammates, applauding the fans.
"Ling, I've figured it out," McTominay said, slinging a sweaty arm around his shoulder. "Your skills are just like my height. They just... automatically improve at a certain point in time."
Ling laughed.
'He's not wrong,' he thought. 'He just doesn't know I'm cheating.'
He shrugged.
"Well, 17 to 23... it's when players are supposed to have explosive growth. Some are just late bloomers. Like Vardy."
...
An hour later, in a debriefing room at Carrington, Faria stood in front of the tactics board.
"Defensively, our organization was solid. We covered the central areas well," he said, his tone professional.
"But don't get complacent. Our defensive support was slow. We weren't decisive enough when pressing their full-backs. We need to improve."
He reviewed the game for twenty minutes, highlighting every minor error.
Nurturing young players meant setting an impossible standard.
"Alright, that's all. Go stretch, go rest." Faria clapped his hands. "Ling. Stay behind for a moment. I have something to discuss with you."
McTominay grinned and gave Ling a secret thumbs-up, wishing his friend luck.
The room emptied.
It was just the two of them.
Faria closed his laptop and turned, his expression serious.
"Ling, I won't hide this from you," Faria began, his voice low. "Because of your rapid improvement, José is very interested in you."
Ling's heart hammered in his chest.
He straightened his posture, his expression becoming one of intense focus.
He didn't dare to breathe.