The storm had passed, but its echo lingered in the marble halls of Old Trafford.
Mbappé's arrival had sent shockwaves through the footballing world, but inside Carrington, the high fives and media buzz had already faded. Now came the real work—the work that didn't come with cameras or Instagram followers.
Ethan Cross sat in the meeting room with Ten Hag, Ellie, and Mitchell van der Gaag. The blinds were drawn, the coffee was strong, and the mood was serious.
"So," Ten Hag said, tapping a finger on the whiteboard. "We've got one of the best players in the world. But one player doesn't win you the league."
Ethan nodded. "We build around him. And we do it now. No more distractions."
Ellie flipped open her laptop. "Our current squad's imbalanced. Still too top-heavy in wages, short on depth, and light in midfield steel. Mbappé's just one part of the puzzle."
"Then let's finish the damn puzzle," Ethan said, eyes glinting. "Piece by piece."
Ten Hag pushed forward a stack of printed profiles. "I've re-ranked the target list based on urgency and fit. Rice deal is moving, but slow. We need to apply pressure. And I want another centre-back before pre-season."
Ethan rubbed his chin. "Kim Min-jae?"
"Still my pick," Ten Hag said. "But Napoli are playing hardball."
"Typical Italians," Ellie muttered. "They say it's a negotiation, but it's really just a prolonged insult contest in formal wear."
Mitchell snorted. "You've never dealt with Lazio."
"Lazio once tried to loan us a player they didn't even own," Ten Hag added. "They claimed he 'spiritually belonged' to them."
Ethan grinned. "We'll worry about spiritual ownership later. Who's actually available?"
Ellie scrolled. "Kim has a release clause—active for a two-week window. Bayern are circling, but we might be able to beat them to it if we move now."
Ethan sat up straighter. "Then let's move. Start the conversation with his reps. Quietly. I don't want another headline until he's holding the scarf."
The next few days were a flurry of silent phone calls, encrypted WhatsApp messages, and a covert visit to Manchester from Kim's agent that involved more backdoor entrances than a Bond film.
At one point, Kim himself FaceTimed Ten Hag from his hotel room.
The call was short, but the body language said everything.
"I like your project," Kim said through a translator. "But I need guarantees. I need to know I'm not just coming here to babysit."
Ten Hag didn't blink. "You're not here to babysit. You're here to lead. You'll be the wall."
Kim smiled. "Then build it. I'll come."
Meanwhile, Ethan had his hands full keeping the media at bay. Ever since the Mbappé bombshell, the press had practically set up camp outside Carrington. Paparazzi lurked in bushes. One even tried to disguise himself as a catering staff member before being tackled by security and getting frosting on his lens.
Ellie rolled her eyes as she forwarded another headline to Ethan:
"United to Sign EVERYONE, Probably Elon Musk Too"
"We need to dial this circus down," she said. "Leak fatigue is real. The fans love it now, but it'll turn if we don't deliver."
Ethan looked up from his laptop. "Then we deliver."
By week's end, the Kim Min-jae deal was done. United had met the clause, secured the personal terms, and beaten Bayern to the punch by mere hours.
Ten Hag's grin when the paperwork arrived was a rare thing—genuine, almost smug.
"Two down," he said. "Now give me a midfield general."
That brought them back to Declan Rice.
The Rice saga had become more dramatic than an EastEnders special. West Ham wanted every last pound, Arsenal wouldn't back down, and City had now stepped in with a half-hearted smirk, as if they were just there to troll.
Ethan called Nick, Rice's agent, again. "Where are we?"
Nick sighed. "We're close. Declan's torn. You've sold him on the vision. But Arsenal are offering… stability."
"Stability's overrated," Ethan said. "We're offering immortality."
"I'll talk to him again," Nick replied.
Ethan hung up and turned to Ellie. "Get ready for a face-to-face. I want to look Rice in the eye."
Two days later, in a private suite at The Shard in London, Ethan met Declan Rice over dinner.
No agents. No fluff. Just Ethan and the man he wanted to build his midfield around.
Declan was charming. Grounded. Intelligent. But you could tell—he wasn't a gambler by nature. He liked structure. Routine.
Ethan leaned forward across the table. "You're not just a player, Declan. You're a leader. And Manchester United needs a new Roy Keane. I think that's you."
Declan laughed. "Bit of a temper, that one."
"Yeah," Ethan said. "But you've got the fire. And you've got the voice. You walk into that dressing room and it shifts."
Declan didn't speak for a while. He just looked out over the London skyline, lost in thought.
"I grew up watching United," he finally said. "Beckham. Scholes. Rooney. I always wondered what it'd feel like… to wear that shirt."
"Try it on," Ethan said softly. "Let's find out."
Back at Old Trafford, Ten Hag was already working overtime on pre-season plans. He stood in front of a tactics board with Mbappé's name pinned near the left wing.
"People think we'll build around him," he told Mitchell. "But I won't change the system. He fits into us, not the other way around."
Mitchell nodded. "Will he accept that?"
"He will," Ten Hag said. "Because he didn't come here to be comfortable. He came to win."
Ethan returned the next morning, eyes bleary but hopeful.
"Rice?" Ellie asked.
"He's thinking," Ethan replied. "But I think we nudged him over the edge."
Ellie leaned back. "We land him, and this summer goes from exciting… to historic."
Ethan looked out at the training pitches where Mbappé was being put through his first paces in red. Cameras lined the fences. Fans cheered every touch.
"No," he said. "This summer's already historic. Now we just make it unstoppable."
As the sun dipped behind Old Trafford, painting the sky in streaks of gold and crimson, Ethan stood at the window of his office.
Two marquee signings already.
Rice close.
Others waiting in the wings.
But more than that… it was the feeling.
The feeling that something was happening.
Something real.
Something that couldn't be bought with oil money or manufactured on social media.
United were rising.
And they weren't finished yet.