It was nearly noon and Ethan Cross hadn't had breakfast yet, which explained why he was pacing the length of the Carrington boardroom with a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and a trail of crumbs behind him. Ellie sat at the table with the patience of someone who had watched too many Ethan meltdowns to be alarmed.
"I mean, Frimpong's agent wants image rights now?" Ethan groaned between chews. "Next he'll be asking for a private jet, a unicorn stable, and naming rights to the team bus."
Ellie didn't look up from her laptop. "He's just doing his job. You know, like we should be doing instead of staging a one-man production of 'Stress: The Musical.'"
Ethan flopped into his seat like a man returning from war. "Remind me again why I didn't just buy a beach house in Mykonos instead of Manchester United?"
Ten Hag entered the room just in time to answer.
"Because you're an idiot," the Dutchman said simply, tossing a tactics folder onto the table. "And because idiots make great owners. They care too much."
Ethan pointed at him with the protein bar. "That might be the most Dutch insult I've ever received."
"Wait until I really get going," Ten Hag muttered, opening a page covered in lines, arrows, and what may or may not have been a doodle of Mbappé lifting a trophy.
—
Two hours later, Ethan, Ellie, and a now-calmer Ten Hag sat opposite Jeremie Frimpong's agent, a sharply dressed man whose watch alone probably cost more than the Old Trafford roof repairs.
"Jeremie wants to be part of something special," the agent began smoothly. "He sees what you're building here. Mbappé. Rice. Kim. He wants in."
Ethan perked up. "Good, because we want him. He's fast, he's aggressive, he overlaps like a caffeinated kangaroo, and—let's be honest—Diogo Dalot can't play every game."
Ten Hag nodded. "He suits our vertical transitions. We've seen the data. He fits."
Ellie slid over the contract. "This is the revised offer. 45 million, structured in performance bonuses, with a clean image rights clause."
The agent skimmed it, his poker face slowly crumbling. "It's fair," he admitted. "Let me call Jeremie."
He stepped out.
Ethan stared after him. "I swear if he comes back and says Jeremie wants a statue…"
But he didn't.
Fifteen minutes later, Frimpong was a United player—pending medical.
And just like that, the squad was almost complete.
—
Later that evening, a few key players gathered at a cozy Italian place near Deansgate. It had become something of a United ritual—a welcome dinner, unofficial but meaningful.
Declan Rice was there, fitting in like he'd been born in a United jersey. Casemiro, ever the enforcer, ordered the steak tartare and proceeded to confuse the waiter by asking if it could be "extra raw."
Mbappé arrived fashionably late, of course, wearing sunglasses indoors and hugging everyone like a diplomat at a G7 summit.
"Finally," said Bruno, raising his glass. "A squad that looks like it belongs on the cover of FIFA and not in a group therapy session."
The laughter was genuine.
Even Ethan smiled, sipping his wine and watching from the corner.
The chemistry was real. That intangible spark that separated great teams from legendary ones.
It wasn't just the names.
It was the balance.
Rice and Casemiro—discipline and fire. Bruno and Mbappé—creativity and chaos. Kim and Lisandro—brick walls with tempers.
Frimpong would only add to it.
But something still tugged at Ethan's mind. A nagging thought just beneath the surface.
Backup striker.
They had Højlund in the pipeline, yes. But what if the kid took time to settle? What if Rashford picked up a knock?
And then there was the elephant in the room.
Greenwood.
No one had said it out loud. Not yet. But his loan was nearly up. And the world was watching.
—
The next morning, Ethan stood outside Ten Hag's office, knocking twice before letting himself in.
"Got a minute?"
"Depends," Ten Hag said, not looking up from his laptop. "Are you here to offer me a functioning left-back or another press headache?"
Ethan closed the door behind him. "Greenwood."
That got Ten Hag's attention.
The manager leaned back slowly. "Ah. That word again."
"We need to make a call soon," Ethan said. "His loan ends next month. And… well, you know the storm it'll bring."
Ten Hag didn't reply immediately. He simply steepled his fingers and looked out the window, watching the youth team sprinting laps under grey skies.
"Footballing ability is not the issue," he finally said. "He's talented. He could help us. But this club is not a rehabilitation centre. It's a beacon. If we bring him back, it has to be for the right reasons—not just goals."
Ethan nodded. "I'll handle it. But I wanted you to know it's coming."
Ten Hag gave a grim smile. "Everything's always coming, Ethan. This club never rests."
—
Elsewhere, Ellie was having a very different conversation—with none other than Wilfried Zaha's representatives.
"Look," she said, sipping black coffee like it was a weapon, "we're not offering nostalgia here. We're offering competition. Zaha wants to prove himself again? United is the biggest stage."
The agent nodded. "He's interested. Still sharp. Still hungry."
Ethan joined just as she was finishing. "So if we sign him, does that count as redemption or just a really weird side quest?"
Ellie shrugged. "Both. But for 10 million, it might be worth the gamble."
Ethan sat down. "Only if he promises not to nutmeg me in training. My ego's already fragile."
—
By week's end, things were moving fast.
Højlund's deal was progressing smoothly. Frimpong had passed his medical. Zaha was genuinely intrigued. And internally, the mood was one of growing belief.
The back pages of the tabloids had shifted from mockery to marvel. "Cross Revolution Gathers Pace," one headline blared. "United Back in Business."
It was flattering. But Ethan knew better.
One injury. One controversy. One misstep, and it could all unravel.
That's what made every choice so critical.
Every call, a step on the tightrope.
Every player, a puzzle piece.
Every decision, a legacy in the making.
—
On a rare Friday afternoon without meetings, Ethan sat alone on the training pitch's edge, watching as the players filed off for the weekend.
Rice jogged over, sweat-soaked and smiling.
"You alright, boss?"
Ethan smiled faintly. "Yeah. Just… taking it in."
Rice sat beside him. "Feels like we're building something, doesn't it?"
Ethan nodded. "We are. Slowly. Properly. Like laying bricks. No shortcuts."
Rice grinned. "Good. Because I didn't come here for shortcuts."
They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the wind.
Then Ethan asked, half-joking, "You ever think about captaining this club someday?"
Rice blinked. "You offering?"
Ethan laughed. "Just planting seeds. That's what builders do, right?"
Rice stood, offering a hand to pull him up.
"Well then," he said, "let's build something no one forgets."
Ethan took his hand.
And as they walked off the pitch together, the dusk settling over Carrington, he allowed himself a rare moment of belief—
That maybe, just maybe, Manchester United was waking up again.