David sat quietly in the Manchester United locker room, a privilege Ole had allowed him despite not being part of the matchday squad. He didn’t speak—not that he could if he wanted to. The weight of the ga pressed down on him, and the air in the room was thick with frustration.
The only sound ca from the heavy breathing of exhausted players and the occasional shuffle of boots against the floor. No one dared to speak. So sat with their heads down, others leaned back against their lockers, staring at the ceiling, and a few were furiously gulping down water, trying to regain their strength.
Then ca the explosion.
"WHAT WAS THAT?!" Ole Gunnar Solskjaer’s voice thundered through the room, shattering the silence like a whip crack. His face was flushed with anger, his usual calm deanor replaced with fury. He stood in the center of the room, glaring at every single player.
"You call that football?!" he continued, shaking his head. "You lot are playing like you’re scared! Where’s the urgency? Where’s the fight? You want to sit back and let Chelsea walk all over you?!"
No one answered. They all knew better.
Ole clenched his fists. "We’re equal and you all are acting like its all over. We can still turn this around score more, but you have to WAKE UP!" His eyes darted to Daniel Jas, who had been struggling all ga. "Jas, you’re off."
Jas swallowed hard but didn’t argue. He knew.
"Greenwood, you’re in." Ole turned to the teenager, his expression firm. "We need goals. You hear ? Goals."
Mason Greenwood nodded, determination flashing in his eyes.
Ole continued pacing, looking around at the entire team. "Listen to . We’re not just here to make up the numbers. We are MANCHESTER UNITED! We push. We push and push and push until we break them! We don’t sit back. We don’t wait. We take the ga to them!" His voice was raw with passion. "I want intensity! I want aggression! I want GOALS! DO YOU HEAR ?!"
"Yes, boss!" The team responded in unison, their voices filled with renewed energy.
"Good." Ole took a deep breath. "Now get out there and make it count."
David followed the team as they stepped out of the locker room, back into the stadium’s floodlights. The air was cool, but his mind was still clouded with frustration. He slowly made his way to the bench, sitting down as he watched the players jog back onto the field.
The ga restarted, and just as Ole demanded, Manchester United pushed forward with everything they had. They pressed high, trying to force Chelsea into mistakes. Rashford, Martial, and Greenwood all charged at the Chelsea backline, looking for gaps to exploit.
But it wasn’t working.
Every ti United pushed, Chelsea stood firm. Rudiger was everywhere, intercepting passes, tackling, blocking runs. Jorginho kept the midfield organized, making sure possession stayed with the Blues. Even Reece Jas and Azpilicueta locked down the wings, stopping United’s attempts to stretch the play.
David sat there, frowning. Sothing didn’t feel right.
’It’s not working,’ he thought. He could see it clearly. They were trying to attack, but they couldn’t even hold the ball long enough to build anything. Chelsea’s possession-based ga was suffocating them, making them chase shadows. The mont United lost the ball, Chelsea calmly passed it around, dragging them out of shape before launching a fresh attack.
David’s fists clenched. ’We’re getting nowhere like this.’
And then it happened.
Mason Mount received the ball just outside the penalty box. He had space. Too much space.
Fred rushed at him, but Mount feinted to the right before dragging the ball to his left, creating just enough room. David’s breath caught in his throat.
’Soone close him down! NOW!’
But no one got there in ti.
Mount struck the ball sweetly with his right foot. It curled beautifully through the air, past a diving De Gea, and slamd into the back of the net.
A second of silence.
Then, the Chelsea bench erupted. Players jumped, coaches hugged, Lampard punched the air in celebration. Mount sprinted to the corner flag, arms wide as his teammates sward him.
David didn’t move. He couldn’t.
He had seen it coming. He knew this was going to happen.
He closed his eyes, exhaled sharply, and muttered one word under his breath.
"Shit."
The match was spiraling out of control.
Manchester United had barely recovered from Mason Mount’s stunning goal when Chelsea ca again, relentless, like sharks slling blood.
David sat frozen on the bench, his hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles turned white. His heart pounded as he watched Chelsea flood forward again, pressing United deeper into their own half. It was suffocating.
Chelsea moved the ball effortlessly, their passing crisp and precise. Kovačić, ever composed, dictated the tempo from midfield, his eyes scanning the field before slipping a pass to Willian on the right.
David’s eyes flickered to the touchline where Ole was yelling instructions, but the players looked lost—disoriented, like a boxer on the ropes after a brutal combo.
Willian drove forward, Wan-Bissaka tracking him, but the Brazilian shifted gears, dropping his shoulder before sending a dangerous ball into the box.
David’s eyes snapped to Giroud.
The French striker had been a thorn in United’s side all night, using his strength and movent to trouble Maguire and Lindelöf. Now, as the ball curled toward him, he peeled away from Maguire—just a subtle movent, but enough to create space.
David barely had ti to think before—
One touch.
Giroud t the ball perfectly, flicking it past De Gea with the outside of his left foot. It flew into the net like a bullet.
"GOOOAAALLL!"
The Chelsea bench erupted. Lampard jumped up, his fists clenched, shouting in celebration. The substitutes and staff on the sideline exploded with joy, hugging and pumping their fists in the air.
David sat there, motionless.
No fans. No crowd. No noise.
Just silence.
Apart from one voice.
Ole Gunnar Solskjaer.
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LOT DOING? WAKE UP!"
He was standing in front of the bench, face red, veins visible in his neck as he scread at the players on the pitch. "FIGHT FOR IT! THERE’S STILL TI!"
But ti was slipping away.
Manchester United finally reacted—finally looked like a team that wanted to win. Rashford burst forward, cutting inside and curling a shot toward the far post—off the bar! The ball rebounded out, falling to Bruno Fernandes, who took a touch and hit it first-ti—off the post!
David exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
Too little, too late.
They were scrambling, desperate. Martial tried to dribble past three defenders but lost the ball. Greenwood attempted a shot from distance, only for it to be blocked. United kept pushing, but Chelsea held firm, absorbing the pressure like a team that knew they had already won.
And then—
Peeeeep!
The final whistle.
Chelsea 3-1 Manchester United.
David didn’t move.
He just stared at the pitch, watching as the Chelsea players embraced each other, celebrating under the empty floodlit stadium. He saw Reece Jas high-five Mount. He saw Giroud laughing with Jorginho. Even N’Golo Kanté, usually quiet, cracked a small smile joining them from the bench.
"There goes the FA Cup," David thought bitterly.
The weight of defeat pressed down on him like a stone. His hands balled into fists on his lap, nails digging into his palm.
"Guess we have to win Sevilla."
Ahead of him, Ole walked toward Lampard. The United manager’s expression was unreadable, but his handshake with the Chelsea boss was brief. He barely looked him in the eye before turning away.
David slowly pushed himself to his feet. His legs still ached, but the pain was nothing compared to the frustration boiling inside him. He walked toward the tunnel, but his eyes caught the Chelsea players dancing, singing, celebrating.
A sharp contrast to United’s players, who trudged off the pitch like defeated warriors.
David spotted Pogba ahead of him.
For a second, he thought about saying sothing. Maybe just exchanging a look, sothing to acknowledge the disappointnt they both felt. But Pogba didn’t even glance his way.
The Frenchman just walked straight into the tunnel, his face dark, his body language stiff with frustration.
David sighed, shaking his head.
Then—
"Lucky, ehn?"
The voice was cold, mocking.
David turned sharply.
Mason Greenwood stood beside him, arms crossed, his sweaty red shirt clinging to his body. His expression was unreadable, but his smirk carried sothing sharp—sothing almost bitter.
David didn’t respond imdiately. He just stared at Greenwood, searching for sothing behind those cold eyes.
Greenwood tilted his head, the smirk deepening, before he turned and walked away, leaving David standing there, fists clenched.
The night was over.
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