The sun in Miami didn't rise—it attacked. It leapt over the skyline like a punch to the face, baking the sidewalks, frying patience, and threatening to melt even Mbappé's ego.
The Manchester United team bus rumbled past palm trees and pastel Art Deco hotels, heading toward their next stop on the U.S. tour: DRV PNK Stadium, home of Inter Miami. The pink branding was everywhere—signs, seats, even a few unlucky security guards in hot pink polo shirts that made them look like flamingos with authority.
Inside the bus, the players were half-asleep. Højlund snored with his mouth wide open, a trail of drool slowly soaking his training top. Garnacho was in a heated FIFA game against Pellistri, complete with shouted Spanish insults and claims of controller sabotage. Casemiro munched trail mix like it was a tactical routine.
In the front row, Ten Hag and Ethan sat across from each other, reviewing the lineup on a tablet.
"We rotate again," Ten Hag said. "Bruno gets a rest. Mbappé starts. Rice as captain. Let's test Zaha up front."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Zaha? As a nine?"
"We try it," Ten Hag said. "It's pre-season. Nothing is sacred."
"Not even logic?"
"Especially not logic."
—
Back at the hotel, a closed-door meeting unfolded in a private suite overlooking the ocean.
Ethan, Ellie, and Ten Hag sat in a triangle of tension.
"Media asked again," Ellie said. "They're circling like sharks. Everyone's asking about Greenwood."
Ten Hag folded his arms. "The players are whispering too. They deserve clarity."
Ethan leaned forward. "I've thought about it. We're going to handle this delicately. No leaks. No circus. But we bring Mason in for a conversation—quiet, internal. We gauge him. Not as a footballer. As a person."
Ellie nodded. "What about the backlash?"
"We don't commit to anything yet," Ethan said. "But if we're going to be a club of integrity, we deal with the hard things head-on. No hiding."
Ten Hag looked out at the waves, then back. "Alright. But this can't be rushed. If it divides the dressing room, it's over before it begins."
"Understood," Ethan said.
He didn't sleep much that night.
—
Match day in Miami.
The stadium buzzed with the scent of overpriced nachos and sunscreen. A sellout crowd, heavy on pink and white shirts, roared every time Inter Miami's mascot—an overly enthusiastic flamingo named "Fuego"—danced near the touchline.
David Beckham arrived with his usual grace, tan sharper than most people's minds. He greeted Ethan with a firm handshake and a knowing smile.
"You've built quite the squad," Beckham said.
Ethan grinned. "You're not doing badly yourself. I saw Busquets nutmeg your kit man in training."
David laughed. "That man hasn't recovered."
They posed for photos, shared a drink, and compared notes on managing madness—then Ethan took his place in the VIP box, flanked by Ellie and a sweating club liaison officer who kept nervously checking his clipboard like it was a nuclear launch code.
—
Starting XI:
GK: Onana
DEF: Frimpong, Kim, Martinez, Malacia
MID: Rice (C), Mount, Mainoo
ATT: Mbappé, Zaha, Garnacho
Ten Hag clapped his hands in the tunnel. "Intensity from the start. I want pace, movement, chaos."
Frimpong cracked his knuckles. "Chaos is my middle name."
"You don't have a middle name," Malacia said.
"Exactly."
—
Kickoff.
Inter Miami came out brave—tiki-taka with an American twist. Messi, still graceful even with a receding hairline and part-time coaching role, sat on the bench watching his teammates try to tango with giants.
And yet, in the first ten minutes, Miami gave United real problems. Their number ten—a nimble Ecuadorian named López—glided through midfield with the elegance of a man who'd never heard of Rice's tackling reputation.
Then, in the 12th minute, boom.
Mbappé. A counterattack born from a Kim clearance, a slick Mount flick, and a sprint that melted air.
Mbappé cut inside, ignored Zaha yelling "I'M OPEN," and curled the ball into the bottom corner with surgical detachment.
1–0 United.
The Miami crowd gasped. The United bench erupted. Even Ten Hag smiled, briefly.
"Every time I think he's done amazing," Rice muttered, "he invents a new version of amazing."
—
Miami weren't dead, though.
By the 28th minute, they'd equalized—thanks to a loose Frimpong pass and a cheeky chip over Onana.
1–1.
Ten Hag hurled a water bottle. Ethan buried his head in his hands.
Zaha shouted, "That's what happens when you pass to ghosts, Jeremie!"
Frimpong raised both hands. "Ghosts make good runs!"
—
Halftime.
The locker room was loud. Players towelled off, drank electrolytes, and traded blame like hot potatoes.
Ten Hag stood in the center, calm amid the storm.
"We've got quality. But quality without discipline is noise. Tighten up."
Mbappé leaned over to Garnacho. "Did he just call us noisy?"
"I think so," Garnacho replied, "and he's right."
Second half.
Bruno came on for Mount. Højlund replaced Zaha. Martinez was swapped for Maguire, who jogged on like a substitute teacher forced to teach gym.
United pressed harder.
Mbappé floated.
Mainoo shone—gliding past challenges, threading impossible passes.
Then came the move of the match.
Bruno to Garnacho. Garnacho backheel to Rice. Rice chipped it to Mbappé, who volleyed it off the bar.
Rebound fell to Højlund.
Bang.
2–1.
Ethan leapt to his feet. "We need to clone that Viking."
Ellie calmly sipped her iced coffee. "Let's win something first."
—
Ten Hag demanded one more.
And they delivered.
In the 82nd minute, Mbappé—clearly enjoying himself—slipped between two defenders and squared the ball for Garnacho, who finished with the outside of his foot.
3–1 United.
Cue dancing. Cue Bruno mocking the Inter Miami mascot with a goal celebration so outrageous Fuego flipped him the wing.
—
Final whistle.
Miami 1 – United 3.
Another win. Another step forward. But in the tunnel, the mood wasn't just triumphant.
It was focused.
Back in the dressing room, Ten Hag gathered the players.
"You've impressed. But now comes the real work."
He paused, then glanced at Ethan.
"Tomorrow, we face something different."
Ethan stepped forward.
"Squad meeting. Noon. Mandatory. No kits, no boots, just honesty."
The players exchanged glances.
Mbappé frowned. "Are we doing trust falls?"
"No," Ethan said. "We're talking Greenwood."
The room fell silent.
Even Garnacho stopped joking.
Rice nodded slowly.
"About time."
—
Later that night, Ethan stood alone on the hotel balcony. Miami glowed beneath him, alive with noise and neon.
Ellie joined him.
"You ready for tomorrow?" she asked.
"No."
"Good. That means you'll handle it right."
They stood in silence, the wind brushing against their faces.
Beneath the gloss and glamour, the real test was beginning.
Not tactics.
Not transfers.
But truth.
And for the Red Revival, that was the real battleground.