Ethan Cross had learned something crucial in his first summer as Manchester United owner: silence was never truly silent. Not in football. Not in Manchester. Not when transfer season buzzed through every street like a swarm of caffeinated bees.
Even now, seated in the sleek confines of his Carrington office with the air conditioning humming gently and his phone blessedly still for a moment, the silence felt too strategic. Like the calm before a VAR decision.
"Ellie," he called, "why does it feel like someone, somewhere, is plotting my downfall?"
Without looking up from her laptop in the adjoining room, Ellie responded, "Because someone, somewhere is. This is Manchester United. Paranoia is a leadership skill."
Ethan nodded solemnly. "Noted. I'll add that to the company handbook. Chapter 1: How to Survive When Everyone Wants Your Job."
Ellie finally looked up. "You say that like you're joking."
"Half-joking," Ethan muttered, clicking into a new email thread labeled: Greenwood Situation: Updated Press Risks.
His expression soured.
—
Ten Hag joined them five minutes later, walking in with the look of a man who had already fought three tactical battles in his head before breakfast.
"We need to finalise pre-season," he said without preamble. "I've had enough of commercial tours where we play a local university team while our midfield gets heatstroke in 42-degree weather."
"I've seen the list," Ethan said, flipping his iPad around. "Real Madrid in New Jersey. Dortmund in Vegas. Boca Juniors in Buenos Aires."
Ten Hag blinked. "We're playing Boca? In Argentina?"
"Yeah. We were trying to spice things up," Ellie said. "Besides, Casemiro wants to take everyone to a steakhouse that allegedly changed his life."
Ten Hag rubbed his temples. "Fine. But we train. Hard. No PR circus. No dance-offs. No TikToks."
"Can we keep the Mbappé cartwheel videos?" Ethan asked.
"Absolutely not."
Ellie muttered, "We're not running a boot camp, Erik. Maybe let the players breathe."
"They can breathe after they lift the Premier League."
—
That afternoon, Ethan took a quiet drive to Old Trafford.
He needed air. Or more accurately, the kind of air that smelled like old turnstiles, fried onions, and generations of impossible hope.
Inside the stadium, a group of workers were overseeing some off-season renovations. One stopped when he spotted him.
"Ethan Cross, right?" the man asked, wiping his hands on his overalls. "Heard you're rebuilding the Theatre of Dreams."
Ethan smiled. "One brick at a time."
The worker nodded. "Just make sure the dreams are good ones."
Ethan paused. "We're working on that."
—
Back at Carrington, a different kind of drama was unfolding.
Rasmus Højlund had arrived.
Fresh off his agreement in principle, the Danish striker strode into the facility like a Viking who'd taken a wrong turn into a luxury rehab center. His energy was palpable—equal parts nerves and caffeine.
He was greeted first by Bruno Fernandes, who took one look at his windswept hair and said, "God help our shampoo sponsorship."
"Welcome, mate," said Marcus Rashford, pulling him into a hug. "Hope you're ready. We don't do easy around here."
Casemiro didn't say anything. He just gave Højlund a firm pat on the back that could've dislodged a lung.
Later, as Højlund was being shown around the gym, Ethan and Ellie watched from the balcony above.
"He looks like he belongs already," Ethan said.
Ellie nodded. "Now we just need to keep him from headbutting anyone in training."
"Why do I feel like that already happened?"
"…Because it did. Martinez challenged him during rondos. Ball went flying. Højlund nutmegged him in retaliation."
Ethan grinned. "We've bought chaos. Wonderful."
—
Meanwhile, the situation with Greenwood began escalating.
Reports leaked. Pundits speculated. Twitter raged. Sponsors made subtle, carefully worded inquiries.
One afternoon, Richard Arnold, still in his transitional advisory role, called Ethan into a discreet meeting.
"You know the story's going to blow up," Arnold said, sliding over a redacted press briefing. "The moment he returns to Manchester airspace, it becomes the story."
Ethan sat in silence for a moment, fingers steepled.
"And if he doesn't return?"
"You'll get slaughtered by a different crowd. Fans who believe in second chances. Who just want him back on the pitch."
Ethan stood. "Then we tell the truth. No decisions have been made. We're still evaluating—properly. On and off the pitch."
Arnold raised an eyebrow. "You really want to fight on two fronts?"
Ethan exhaled. "We already are."
—
That night, in a dim corner booth of a pub near Ancoats, Ethan sat down with Wilfried Zaha.
The Ivorian looked older than his last United stint, but also hungrier—like a man with unfinished business in his veins.
"I don't want to be a nostalgia signing," Zaha said, stabbing his fork into a plate of grilled sea bass. "I want to compete."
"You will," Ethan said. "We're not collecting jerseys. We're building balance. You'd offer cover, versatility, leadership. And frankly, a bit of redemption is good for morale."
Zaha smirked. "You really believe in this?"
Ethan didn't hesitate. "Every minute. Every player. Every risk."
Zaha leaned back, considering it. Then extended a hand.
"Then let's write the next chapter."
—
By week's end, the headlines were thunderous.
Frimpong Joins United Revolution.
Zaha Eyes Old Trafford Return.
Højlund Begins United Journey.
Greenwood Decision Imminent.
And inside Carrington, Ethan gathered the senior staff for one final meeting before the squad departed for the U.S. tour.
"This is it," he said. "The start of something. We're not just buying names. We're building a culture. Intensity. Unity. Belief."
Ten Hag nodded. "And trophies."
Ethan smiled. "That too."
Outside, the players loaded up the bus. Frimpong high-fived everyone in sight. Højlund bounced on his heels like a man desperate to play. Mbappé was already filming something for Instagram.
And as Ethan stepped aboard, one last thought hit him—
They weren't just assembling a team.
They were raising a storm.
And the Premier League had no idea what was coming.