The Beverly Hills Hotel lobby looked like a Gucci pop-up had exploded. Mbappé, wearing shades indoors again, posed for photos with fans beside a slightly jet-lagged Declan Rice, who clutched a bottle of water like it owed him rent. Ethan Cross walked through the chaos like a man too tired to be impressed and too caffeinated to sit still.
"Is it weird that I still can't believe this is real?" Ethan asked Ellie, who was balancing three phones, a media schedule, and a cappuccino with the precision of a NASA engineer.
She didn't look up. "You own the club, Ethan. You're allowed to believe it."
"Yeah, but Mbappé just asked if I knew a good place for sushi in LA. What do I say? Tesco?"
"You say Nobu. Or lie convincingly. Do not mention Tesco."
"Right. Nobu it is," Ethan muttered, eyeing a decorative koi pond and wondering if he could hide in it until the match.
—
The pre-season tour opener was set for a balmy Saturday night at Dignity Health Sports Park against LA Galaxy. United's social channels had been hyping the match with cinematic trailers, including one where Garnacho slow-mo sprinted through smog while Hans Zimmer music played in the background.
The stadium was packed: a sea of red and gold, scattered with Beckham jerseys, homemade Mbappé signs, and at least three Cristiano Ronaldo impersonators who were booed on sight by the younger fans.
United's lineup had the right balance of firepower and freshness. Ten Hag—clipboard in one hand, gum in the other—delivered his team talk with Dutch intensity.
"Højlund starts up top. Mbappé left, Garnacho right. Bruno and Rice behind. Kim and Lisandro at the back. Let's give them something to remember."
"By winning or by making three red cards look stylish?" Lisandro asked.
"Either," Ten Hag replied. "As long as we play fast, sharp, smart."
Bruno gave a mock salute. "Let's pretend it's the Champions League and not just sweaty tourism."
Højlund bounced in place like a dog at the door. "Can't wait to smash one in."
"You say that," Bruno muttered, "but just don't get in my way when I shoot."
Mbappé smirked. "You mean when you try to shoot."
—
Ethan watched from the VIP section, seated next to a YouTube prankster who kept offering him a hot wing. "It's laced with ghost pepper, bro. Do it for the culture.
"I own Manchester United," Ethan replied flatly. "I am the culture."
Below, the whistle blew.
LA Galaxy came out flying. No respect, no fear. Their front three buzzed around Kim and Martinez, pressing high and nearly scoring in the 8th minute when a long-range missile clipped the bar.
"Galaxy showing no fear against this star-studded United side!" the American commentator blared.
"Calm down," Ethan muttered. "It's pre-season, not Normandy."
In the 15th minute, United settled. Rice and Bruno started dictating the rhythm. Bruno sprayed a 40-yard pass to Mbappé, who controlled it on the run, nutmegged the full-back, and whipped in a low cross that barely missed Højlund.
The fans roared. The switch had flipped.
Moments later, Garnacho danced past his marker, drove to the byline, and floated a cross into the box.
Højlund rose like Thor with a ponytail and smashed the header into the top corner.
1–0 United.
The stadium exploded. Højlund sprinted toward the fans, roaring, before being swallowed in a celebratory pile by Bruno and Garnacho.
Ten Hag didn't smile, but he scribbled something approving on his notes.
Ethan grinned. "Tax evasion aside, that Viking kid can ball."
—
Second half. Substitutions.
On came Casemiro, Frimpong, Zaha, and Kobbie Mainoo—who immediately nutmegged an LA midfielder so cleanly that Bruno stood and applauded.
"Give that lad a statue," he said.
In the 65th minute, Mbappé scored one for the ages. He cut inside from the left, ignored Bruno shouting "LAY IT OFF!", and curled a shot from 25 yards into the far corner.
2–0 United.
The Galaxy keeper didn't even dive. Just stood there, contemplating his life choices.
Even the home crowd applauded.
"Mbappé just violated the Geneva Convention," the commentator gasped. "He's a cheat code."
Bruno rolled his eyes. "He's a bloody tourist with ego issues."
—
But Galaxy struck back. In the 78th minute, a lapse at the back—mostly because Lisandro was yelling at the referee about a missed foul from 2019—left Onana exposed.
Their striker slotted calmly past him. 2–1.
Ten Hag kicked a water bottle.
"FOCUS! This is not a summer camp!"
Lisandro raised his hand. "Oops."
On the touchline, Frimpong leaned to Casemiro. "Do we pretend we care?"
Casemiro grinned. "Pretend harder after a loss. But we're still winning, so relax."
—
Final whistle. 2–1.
Job done. Legs tested. Confidence boosted.
In the post-match presser, Ethan sat beside Ten Hag, nursing a bottle of sparkling water and pretending it was whiskey.
"How did it feel to see Højlund score in his first outing?"
Ethan smiled. "Like watching your kid take his first steps. If your kid was 6'3, Danish, and broke furniture for fun."
"And Mbappé?"
Ten Hag took that one. "Kylian doesn't warm up. He arrives. That's the difference."
Someone finally asked the question Ethan had been bracing for.
"Will Mason Greenwood join the squad later in the tour?"
A pause. Ethan's expression tightened.
"That's a conversation for another day. Today's about progress."
—
That night, the squad returned to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Sore. Buzzing.
Rice and Casemiro hit the ice baths. Garnacho made a TikTok with Zaha dancing behind him. Mbappé and Bruno debated over whose FIFA rating was more insulting.
Bruno: "I've got vision 84? My grandma's vision is 90 and she plays bingo."
Mbappé: "They gave me 85 composure. I've got more composure than a monk on Xanax."
In the hotel gym, Lisandro lifted weights while screaming along to Metallica.
In the hallway, Kobbie Mainoo FaceTimed his mum, proudly holding up his match shirt.
And in the corner of the rooftop bar, Ethan sat with Ellie, watching the lights of LA flicker like a dream half-awake.
"You're quiet," Ellie said.
"I'm terrified," he admitted.
"Of what?"
"That this might actually work."
She took a sip of her drink. "You do realise that's the whole point, right?"
He smiled. "Yeah. But belief is scarier than failure."
She didn't argue.
Instead, they watched as Garnacho cannonballed into the pool, earning a whistle from security and a standing ovation from the squad.
—
The next morning, training resumed at UCLA's campus, where palm trees lined the pitch and American college students stopped mid-jog to film Mbappé warming up.
Ten Hag was relentless. "No slacking! I want intensity! Mbappé, stop smiling! Garnacho, that's not a warm-up, it's interpretive dance!"
During a break, Ethan walked the touchline with Rice.
"Feeling alright?" he asked.
Rice nodded. "Great squad. Great vibe. But you're still missing one thing."
"What's that?"
"A proper backup striker. Someone experienced. Højlund's class, but we need depth."
Ethan sighed. "You're not wrong. We've scouted a few names. Scamacca. Daka. Maybe even a cheeky loan."
"You'll figure it out," Rice said. "Just don't panic-buy like Chelsea."
Ethan chuckled. "Never. We panic with style."
—
In the evening, the team met with sponsors, posed for endless photos, and signed autographs until their wrists ached.
Mbappé snuck out early, claiming a Zoom call with "a French tax consultant," which was clearly code for dinner at Nobu.
Bruno staged a coup against the hotel Wi-Fi, demanding the "executive bandwidth."
Casemiro walked around asking if anyone wanted to play chess.
By midnight, Ethan collapsed into bed, phone buzzing nonstop with transfer alerts, agent messages, and one very persistent call from someone labeled simply: "Sir Alex."
He let it go to voicemail. Not yet.
The tour had only just begun.
—
And as the lights of Los Angeles dimmed, one thing was clear:
United wasn't just a brand anymore.
They were becoming a team.
The Red Revival was no longer a slogan.
It was a movement.
And Hollywood had just witnessed its opening scene.