Declan Rice had barely had time to unpack his suitcase before the welcome messages started flooding in.
First came Bruno Fernandes with a voice note: "Can't wait to boss the midfield together, mate. Just don't try to take my set pieces or we're fighting."
Then Rashford, ever the diplomat: "Welcome to the club, Declan. Let's win things, yeah?"
And finally, from Casemiro: a thumbs-up emoji followed by what Ethan could only describe as an enthusiastic GIF of a bull charging through a wall. Message received.
Ethan walked into Carrington the next morning with a spring in his step. And a very large, very sugary iced coffee in his hand. Ellie gave it a glance and grimaced.
"That much syrup should be illegal."
"It's not syrup," Ethan said defensively. "It's optimism. In liquid form."
She rolled her eyes. "Optimism shouldn't have sprinkles."
Ten Hag was already in the war room, hunched over a tactical board, arranging magnets like he was solving the Da Vinci Code. When he heard them walk in, he turned without greeting and simply said, "Højlund."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Gesundheit?"
"Højlund," Ten Hag repeated. "We need a striker. Someone young. Hungry. Rasmus Højlund fits the bill."
Ellie pulled up the profile on her tablet. "Atalanta are open to talks, but they want north of 60 million."
Ethan whistled. "For a kid with one good season and a haircut that looks like it lost a fight with a weed-whacker?"
"He's raw," Ten Hag said. "But he has fire. Think Haaland, but slightly more human and less… Norse god."
Ellie smirked. "So a discount demigod."
"Exactly," Ten Hag said.
Ethan rubbed his chin. "Alright. Get me his agent. Let's feel this one out. But first, let's check on the new general."
Declan Rice was in the gym, already mid-squat, while half the squad was still dragging themselves through their morning stretches. Ethan leaned on the doorframe and watched as Rice powered through a brutal set of reps without flinching.
Next to him, Lisandro Martínez grunted through pushups, paused for breath, and said, "He's a freak. I love him."
Rice racked the bar, wiped sweat from his forehead, and noticed Ethan.
"You lot don't mess around, do you?"
"We really don't," Ethan said. "Just ask the vending machine. It got replaced because it ran out of electrolytes."
Rice laughed. "Glad to be here. Feels right."
"Good. You're going to be worked to death."
"I'd be worried if I wasn't."
Training that day was electric. Ten Hag ran an intense full-pitch drill that pitted the starting eleven against a mix of academy stars and squad players.
Rice slotted in beside Casemiro like they'd played together for years. Kim Min-jae barked orders from the back with all the intensity of a man searching for lost treasure. And Mbappé? Mbappé was already toying with defenders like it was recess.
"Did he just nutmeg Varane… twice?" Ellie asked from the touchline, eyes wide.
"Technically, yes," Ethan replied. "But emotionally? I think he meg'd all of us."
Bruno scored from the edge of the box and immediately screamed "CAPTAIN'S PRIVILEGE!" as he wheeled away in celebration. Martinez tried to tackle him mid-celebration and ended up getting a piggyback ride across half the pitch.
It was chaos. Beautiful, glorious chaos.
Ten Hag called it off just before someone pulled a hamstring out of sheer competitive spite.
"Better," he said gruffly, nodding approvingly. "But tomorrow, we kill them."
The players groaned.
"Figuratively," he added. "Mostly."
That night, back in the boardroom, the team regrouped. The Rice signing had set the tone, but there were still gaps to fill.
"Right-back options," Ellie began. "Frimpong is keen. Leverkusen are playing hardball. They want 45 million."
Ten Hag nodded. "Frimpong brings dynamism. Speed. He fits the system."
Ethan scrolled through his iPad. "Anyone cheaper? Like… a fast guy with no knees but great vibes?"
Ellie ignored that. "We've also got the option to promote from within. Ethan Laird's been good on loan."
"He's close," Ten Hag agreed. "But we need proven depth. Frimpong's the right move."
Ethan exhaled. "Alright. Let's push. Add him to the priority list."
"Speaking of depth…" Ellie turned the screen again. "Back-up striker. Højlund's still the target."
Ethan nodded. "Set up the call. If he's got fire, I want to see it."
"Tomorrow," Ellie said. "Over Zoom."
"Perfect. I'll wear a tie. Or at least pretend I'm wearing pants."
"Please don't tell him that," she said.
"No promises."
Elsewhere that night, Rasmus Højlund sat in his hotel room in Copenhagen, nervously checking his webcam. He had shaved. Twice. And tried five different hairstyles before finally accepting he would always look a little bit like a Viking who got lost in a shampoo commercial.
His phone pinged.
Incoming Call: Manchester United — Ethan Cross.
He took a deep breath and answered.
Ethan appeared, grinning. "Rasmus. Look at you. You've got the hair of Thor and the smile of a kid who just stole his older brother's controller."
Højlund laughed nervously. "Thank you… I think?"
"Here's the deal," Ethan said. "We want you at United. You're young. You're hungry. And I've seen your highlight reels. You run like someone who's trying to outrun tax fraud."
Rasmus blinked. "I… appreciate that?"
"What I mean is," Ethan continued, "we see something in you. Ten Hag believes you can grow into a star here. You won't start every game, but you'll learn from the best. And when your time comes, you'll explode."
"I want to play," Rasmus said firmly.
"And you will," Ethan replied. "But the best meals simmer before they're served. Think of this as your preseason in the oven."
"…Okay," Rasmus said slowly. "But I hope I'm not a casserole."
"You're a flaming steak, my friend."
Rasmus grinned. "Let's do it."
The next morning, the Carrington team room buzzed with good news.
Højlund: agreed in principle.
Frimpong: in negotiations.
And the midfield? Now anchored by Rice, buzzing with anticipation.
Ethan stood on the Carrington balcony once more, sipping his iced optimism, watching the sun rise over the training pitches.
He wasn't just building a squad.
He was building belief.
And maybe, just maybe, a dynasty.