Ole had just spent the entire two-hour flight from Germany to Manchester feeling like a man condemned. Every second in that cabin had been suffocating, the weight of the past few hours pressing down on him like an unbearable force. He sat stiffly in his seat, eyes staring blankly at nothing, yet acutely aware of everything around him. Every whisper, every glance, every hushed joke between the players—it all felt like it was about him. Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was the truth. Either way, it gnawed at him, a slow, relentless torture that refused to let up.
When the plane finally touched down, there was no relief. His ordeal wasn’t over—not even close. Now, he had to board the team bus, endure another fifty minutes of silent suffering, trapped with players and staff who, despite their attempts at normalcy, carried an air of unease around him. He knew they were watching him, wondering what he was thinking, whether he’d break his silence or lash out in frustration. But he said nothing. He just needed to get to the stadium. He could’ve gone straight ho—he thought about it, considered disappearing behind his front door, locking himself away from all of this. But no. He needed to be here.
As soon as the bus pulled up, he was the first off.
"Gaffer—" soone called behind him, but he ignored it. The voices of the players, the staff, they didn’t matter right now. He didn’t even glance back. His stride was determined, purposeful. His feet knew exactly where they were taking him.
The stadium lood ahead, a ghost of what it once was. Once a fortress, a beacon of dominance, now it stood tired, almost lifeless—its fading brilliance a cruel reflection of his own mood. The banners that once fluttered proudly now hung limp, dulled by rain and ti. The seats, once filled with an electric crowd, sat empty, silent. The echoes of past triumphs felt like a distant mory, drowned beneath the weight of the present.
Even the security guard at the entrance, the one who might have stopped him on any other day to talk, simply stepped aside without a word. Perhaps it was respect. Perhaps it was pity. Either way, Ole barely noticed.
He stord through the corridors, his mind a whirlwind, his body moving on instinct. Past the locker rooms, past the trophy displays that now seed to mock him. Left, right, another turn—his destination was in sight.
A door.
Without breaking stride, he pushed it open without knocking, the wood slamming against the wall as he entered.
And there he was.
Sitting behind his desk, looking up in shock, as if he hadn’t expected this. As if he didn’t know exactly what he had done.
The sadness, the sha, the self-pity that had consud Ole for hours—no, days—was gone. Burnt away in an instant, leaving only anger. Raw, seething anger.
Directed at him.
Ed Woodward barely had ti to react before his office door was flung open, crashing against the wall with a force that made him jump. His first instinct was to lash out—who the hell just barged in like that? But then he saw him.
Ole Solskjær.
Standing there, fists clenched, his face twisted with unfiltered rage. The anger radiating off him was almost suffocating, filling the room like a heavy fog. Ed sighed, already knowing exactly why he was here.
"Ole, I know you’re angry, but can you just—calm down?" he started, trying to keep his voice asured, but he barely got the words out before the eruption ca.
"Calm down? Are you insane?" Ole barked, stepping closer, his voice shaking with fury. "You want to calm down after what you just did?"
Ed barely had ti to respond before Ole cut in again.
"You know I’m not the one who decides this," Ed said quickly, trying to defend himself.
"Oh, please! You and your precious board—always hiding behind them, using them as your excuse!" Ole shot back, his voice laced with venom. "Even if you weren’t the one who pulled the trigger, you knew. You knew and you didn’t tell ! You let walk into that match completely blind, letting face humiliation! Can you even imagine the disgrace?"
Ed exhaled, rubbing his forehead. "I wanted to tell you, Ole. I was holding onto the news for days," he admitted, his voice losing a little of its usual authority. "I was hoping—praying—that if you won this match, I could find a way to keep you in the job. But you know how it is..." He trailed off for a second, but then quickly regained his composure. "I was going to tell you the mont you got back. I don’t know how the news leaked."
Ole let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, spare the details. You knew, and you didn’t say a word." He scoffed, eyeing Woodward with sheer disgust. "So friend you are. I guess that’s just how all you suits operate." The word suits dripped from his tongue like an insult, his eyes sweeping over Ed’s tailored blazer as if the re sight of it repulsed him.
But he wasn’t done.
"And you better be ready to pay every damn penny I’m owed in reparations," he snapped, his tone sharp, uncompromising.
Ed barely reacted. He simply sighed, his expression unreadable. "All the necessary paynts have already been processed."
Ole didn’t even nod. He just turned sharply, storming toward the door. His hand was already on the handle when Ed’s voice stopped him.
"I’m sorry, Ole," Ed said, softer this ti. "It ca from the top. There was nothing I could do."
Ole didn’t respond. He didn’t even look back. He just wrenched the door open and slamd it shut behind him with a force that rattled the fra.
Ed sat back in his chair, running a hand over his face, exhaling deeply. He felt like he had aged a decade in the span of minutes. His temples throbbed, his mind swam with exhaustion, frustration—maybe even regret.
Lord, I hate this job.
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