David limped through the dimly lit corridors of Old Trafford, his crutches tapping against the cold tiled floor with every step. His heart pounded—not just from the effort of walking, but from the weight of where he was.
Manchester United.
His new club.
And yet, right now, he was completely and utterly lost.
He sighed, glancing down the endless hallways stretching ahead of him. This wasn’t how he envisioned his first real visit to the ho of his boyhood club as a player. He was supposed to feel at ho here, but instead, he felt like a stranger.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself.
He had been to Old Trafford before, but only as a Derby County player. He had morized the route to the away team’s locker room, the cold, impersonal space where visiting teams prepared for battle. But the ho team’s locker room? He had no clue.
Frustration bubbled inside him. He should have asked for directions, but pride kept him from doing so ’stupid security man’ he muttered. How could he, a Manchester United player, not know the way to his own dressing room?
He tightened his grip on his crutches and pushed forward, hoping to stumble upon sothing that would tell him the way .
As he moved deeper into the stadium, he noticed sothing odd.
It felt... empty.
Sure, COVID restrictions were still in place, but this was ManchesterUnited. Shouldn’t there be more staff? More movent? More... life?
Instead, the walls felt hollow. The hallways looked worn-down. The bright lights above flickered slightly, casting eerie shadows on the walls lined with faded posters of past glories. The floors, though polished, seed to have lost their shine. Everything around him appeared slightly aged, the vibrant energy of the place sohow drained.
David frowned. Whydoesthisplacefeellikeit’sstuckinti?
It wasn’t the stadium he had always dread of. Old Trafford had been one of the most iconic places in football, the ho of legends, a fortress of pride for Manchester United. Yet now, in this strange quiet, it felt like a shadow of what it once was. He could almost feel the weight of history pressing down on him.
He turned a corner and caught sight of a staircase, one that seed more worn than the others. The railing, chipped and faded, wasn’t the majestic golden touch he had imagined when he first thought of coming here. It was as if Old Trafford, much like himself, was struggling to move forward, caught between the glory of the past and the uncertainty of the future. Thinking that he laughed ’what past glory do I have and my future isn’t uncertain I would make sure of that’ he thought
David’s eyes lingered on the stairs for a mont, but before he could dive too deep into his thoughts, sothing caught his attention—the Trophy Room.
It was quiet, but sohow, David’s heart raced as he stepped closer. The door was slightly ajar, inviting him in. And though he didn’t plan on stepping inside, curiosity pulled him forward like a magnet.
His eyes widened as he crossed the threshold.
The Trophy Room—a place where history lived and breathed. The cabinets stretched high, filled with the gleaming trophies that told the story of this legendary club. There, in the center of the room, was the European Cup. The one that had once been held by so of the greatest nas in football history.
David’s gaze swept across the display, and he found himself lingering on one cabinet in particular. WayneRooney’strophies. He stared at the images of his forr coach, the man who had not only been an inspiration but also a ntor. David had watched him lift countless trophies with the sa passion he now dread of. The old pictures of Wayne with the silverware made David’s heart swell with admiration. Here was a player who had earned his place in football history, and now, a coach who guided the next generation.
But it wasn’t just Rooney that caught his attention. As his eyes drifted, he saw the entire wall dedicated to SirAlexFerguson—the man who had built this empire. The photographs, the stories, the sheer weight of the legacy—it all flooded David’s mind. He could almost hear the roar of the crowd, feel the adrenaline of every historic match, every victory, every ounce of hard work that had built this iconic football club.
David stood there in stunned silence for what felt like an eternity. It wasn’t just admiration he felt in that mont—it was a burning desire to be part of this legacy, to walk in the footsteps of the greats.
He stood there, watching the trophies shimr under the soft lighting, and his heart swelled with determination. One day, he promised himself. Oneday, I’llbeupthere, too. I’llwineverything, makethisplaceshinebrighterthanever.
Before David could gather his thoughts further, a voice broke the silence.
"Hey, kid!"
He whipped around, startled, almost dropping his crutches. A man in casual sportswear stood at the entrance, a friendly but authoritative presence.
David blinked, still trying to catch his breath. "Uh, hello, sir."
The man gave him a puzzled look before raising an eyebrow. "What are you doing here?" he asked, clearly amused by David’s presence in the Trophy Room.
David hesitated. He thought about his last interaction with a guard, who had almost not allowed him to enter thinking he was a crazy fan. He didn’t want to go through that again. So, he spoke defensively, "I’m not a crazy fan or anything. I’m a United player."
The man smiled knowingly, almost as if he was expecting the response. "Yeah, I know that. But I an, what are you doing here, in the Trophy Room?"
David’s cheeks flushed with embarrassnt, but before he could stamr out a response, the man’s smile grew wider. "I figured you wanted to et the team in the locker room. Is that it?"
David’s eyes lit up with excitent. "Yes! Yes, I do! Do you know where they are?"
The man chuckled softly, clearly amused by David’s eagerness. "I do. They’re just down the hall."
David’s heart raced with anticipation, but as he turned to leave, his curiosity got the better of him. He turned back to the man, who was still smiling at him. "How do you know who I am?" David asked, genuinely puzzled.
The man looked at him as if the answer was obvious. "I know everything about Manchester United. Of course, I know about our new star boy."
David’s face broke into a wide smile, though he felt a happy by the praise.
"Don’t worry, kid," the man said, clapping him on the back. "I’m sure You’ll get there. Off you go now, join your teammates."
David nodded eagerly, turning and hurrying toward the hallway. His mind raced as he walked, still in awe that he had even been noticed by soone at this iconic place. As he walked, he could feel the weight of history all around him—thiswashischancetobeapartofsothingbigger.
Finally, he reached the locker room door. His heart thudded in his chest as he reached for the handle. This was it. He was about to et his new teammates, to step into the place where they prepared for battle.
He knocked tentatively, but before he could hear a response, the door swung open.
David stood frozen, crutches in hand, staring wide-eyed at the sight before him.
There, in the middle of the room, stood OleGunnarSolskjaer, the Manchester United manager. And behind him were the players—the people he had started daydreaming of playing alongside: Pogba, Rashford, Bruno Fernandes, and more. They all turned to look at him in surprise.
"David?" Ole’s voice was filled with surprise.
David’s mouth went dry. "Gaffer..." was all he managed to say.
Ole took a step forward, his expression softening. "What are you doing here?"
David’s heart pounded in his chest. He had wanted to say sothing clever, but the words ca out before he could stop it. "I had told you I was coming to co watch the match with you guys."
Ole raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a small smile. "Not exactly what I ant. I an, why are you here in the locker room at half-ti?"
David looked down, feeling a little sheepish. "Well, I just... I wanted to give you guys my support." He paused, then added more honestly, "I didn’t really know what I was doing, to be honest. I just... couldn’t control myself."
Ole chuckled softly, his smile warm and reassuring. "Don’t worry, kid. Soon enough, you’ll be out there with us. Just hold on."
anwhile, across the room, Pogba raised an eyebrow at the scene. "Who’s the kid? Is he the coach’s son?" he asked, turning to Rashford, who shook his head.
"No, didn’t you hear? He called him ’gaffer.’ Can’t be his son," Rashford replied, clearly confused.
Pogba looked uncertain but shrugged. "Could be. You never know with people he could like his family calling him gaffer you can’t tell."
Bruno, overhearing, laughed. "I don’t think he’s the coach’s son. I’ve t his family."
Pogba scoffed. "Well, another child outside. You never know."
Before David could fully take in the mont, soone called out, "Boss, we need to go!"
Ole nodded and turned back to David.
"Don’t be in a rush, kid. Everything will work out."
David nodded, but as he watched Ole walk back to the players, a wave of longing washed over him.
He stood there, gripping his crutches, watching them—so close, yet so far.
Then, Ole turned around one last ti, surrounded by his players, standing like a general among his soldiers. He smiled.
"Do you want to co watch the match from the bench?"
David’s breath hitched.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I do."
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