The morning light filtered through the curtains of David’s apartnt, casting a soft glow over the room. His alarm buzzed loudly, but he was already awake. He had barely slept. The rush of emotions from the past day—the tactical eting, making the squad, the whirlwind of online reactions—had left his mind restless.
Still, there was no ti to dwell on any of it. Today was another day, another training session, another step in proving that he deserved his spot.
With a deep sigh, he swung his legs off the bed and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His body ached slightly—a reminder of yesterday’s intense drills. He checked his phone first thing, scrolling through his ssages. A few from his family mostly his mother, one from Zoey replying late at night, and then a flood of notifications from social dia.
He hesitated before opening Twitter. A part of him knew what would be there, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to see it. But curiosity won.
His na was everywhere.
"David Jones over Martial?? What a joke.""Never heard of this guy in my life, but let’s see what he’s about.""Ighalo didn’t make it, Mata didn’t make it, but so kid did? What is Ten Hag thinking??"
David exhaled sharply and locked his phone. He couldn’t afford to get distracted by all of this. Whether people doubted him or not didn’t matter. He had been picked—that was all that counted.
He pushed himself off the bed and got moving, going through his usual morning routine. A quick shower, breakfast—eggs, toast, and a protein shake—then out the door. The Manchester air was crisp, a slight chill lingering from the night before. His car ride to Carrington was quiet, the only sound being the hum of the engine and the occasional radio comntary about United’s squad selection. He turned it off before they could get to his na.
Pulling into the training ground, David saw so of his teammates already arriving. Ronaldo was always one of the first, his black SUV parked in its usual spot. As David stepped out, he spotted Bruno Fernandes and Victor Lindelöf in conversation near the entrance.
"Morning, mate," Bruno greeted as David passed by.
"Morning," David replied, trying to shake off the lingering weight of social dia’s scrutiny.
Inside, the training facility was alive with movent. Players were getting into their routines—so stretching, so chatting, others already out on the field working on drills.
David changed into his training gear, tying his boots tightly before stepping onto the pitch. The mont his cleats hit the grass, everything else faded. The doubts, the online noise—it didn’t matter here. Here, the only thing that counted was the work.
Training started with warm-ups—light jogging, stretches, and mobility exercises. Then ca the drills. Possession-based exercises, passing routines, quick one-two plays.
David was paired up with Mason Greenwood and Marcus Rashford for the first drill, focusing on fast, one-touch passing under pressure. The coaches kept the intensity high, and David pushed himself to keep up with the rapid pace.
"Quicker, Jones!" one of the assistants barked. "Move it faster!"
He gritted his teeth, adjusting, forcing his footwork to be sharper. Greenwood played a sharp ball into him, and instead of controlling it, David instinctively flicked it back first-ti, catching Rashford in stride.
"Better," Rashford said with a nod.
Next was finishing drills. David found himself taking shots against David De Gea and Dean Henderson.
His first attempt was weak—a rushed shot straight at De Gea, who saved it easily.
"Co on, Dave," Henderson called from the other goal. "You’re better than that."
David inhaled deeply. No second-guessing. No overthinking.
The next ball ca in. He set himself, angled his body, and struck cleanly. The ball rifled into the bottom corner past De Gea’s outstretched hand.
"Good hit," De Gea acknowledged.
From there, he found his rhythm. Left foot, right foot, volleys—each strike more precise than the last. The doubts from earlier faded away with every successful shot.
After drills, it was ti for a small-sided match. Ten Hag was watching closely, and David knew this was another opportunity to show he belonged.
He was placed on a team with Bruno, Rashford, and Wan-Bissaka, facing off against a side led by Ronaldo and Pogba.
The ga was fast, aggressive.
Bruno dictated the tempo, spraying passes across the pitch, while Pogba showcased his strength and vision. Ronaldo, as expected, was lethal in front of goal.
David had to work hard. He wasn’t the biggest na on the field—not even close—but he could make an impact.
A loose ball rolled his way, and before he could think, he flicked it over an onrushing defender and darted forward. Rashford spotted the run and sent a through ball in behind.
David sprinted, beating the defender to the ball, and with a composed finish, slotted it past Henderson.
He didn’t celebrate. He just turned and jogged back into position.
"Nice one," Bruno said as they reset for the next play.
The match continued, intense from start to finish. David played with everything he had, knowing every mont was another chance to prove himself.
By the ti Ten Hag blew the final whistle, David was exhausted but satisfied. He had worked hard, played well, and—most importantly—held his own among so of the best players in the world.
As they walked off the pitch, Ronaldo clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Good work today."
David nodded, suppressing the urge to grin. "Thanks."
He knew he had a long way to go, but today had been a step forward.
After a quick cooldown session and a shower, David checked his phone again. More ssages, more ntions, more reactions to the squad list.
But this ti, he didn’t care.
He had done his part on the pitch.
And that was what truly mattered.
The day before the squad announcent was always tense. It didn’t matter how long you had been at the club—whether you were an academy graduate, a seasoned pro, or a world-class talent—everyone felt it. Because tomorrow wasn’t just another matchday. It was the first ga of the season, the beginning of a long, grueling campaign where reputations could be made or broken.
David arrived at Carrington early, stepping into the dressing room to find it buzzing with conversation. So of the senior players were already in, tying their boots, stretching, or chatting in low voices about the upcoming match.
Across the room, Bruno Fernandes and Raphael Varane were locked in discussion, likely about tactical plans. Ronaldo sat at his locker, scrolling through his phone, his face unreadable. Mason Greenwood and Marcus Rashford exchanged jokes with Paul Pogba, the three of them in high spirits.
David took a seat and started lacing up his boots. The air was thick with anticipation, but nobody talked directly about the squad selection. It was an unspoken rule—you don’t bring it up. You just train, focus, and hope that when the ti cos, your na is on that list.
Out on the training pitch, the coaching staff had set up different stations—passing drills, positional exercises, finishing routines. David followed the group through warm-ups, moving through dynamic stretches and jogging laps around the pitch.
Ten Hag and his assistants watched from the sidelines, murmuring among themselves.
The session kicked off with rondos, small circles of players passing the ball while a defender tried to win possession. David found himself in a group with Rashford, Bruno, and Fred, moving the ball quickly, keeping it away from the pressing player in the middle.
"Too slow, David!" Bruno called when his pass wasn’t quick enough.
David adjusted. Next ti, he played it first-ti, zipping the ball back to Rashford, who flicked it to Fred.
Bruno nodded approvingly. "Better."
After that ca positional drills. David was rotated between different roles—dropping deep to receive the ball, making runs behind the defense, linking up with the midfield. Everything was sharp, high-intensity. The coaching staff demanded perfection.
"Again!" the assistant coach barked when a passing sequence didn’t go smoothly.
David gritted his teeth and ran it again. And again. Until it was right.
Then ca the most important part of training—the match simulation.
This was where things got serious. Ten Hag split the squad into two teams and ran a full-length training match, mirroring what they would face in the actual ga.
David found himself lined up alongside so of the biggest nas in the squad. Across from him stood legends of the ga, players he had grown up watching on TV.
The intensity was imdiate. Bruno was dictating the tempo, Rashford was making darting runs, and Ronaldo... well, Ronaldo was Ronaldo. Every ti he got the ball, defenders panicked.
David worked hard, pressing aggressively, moving into space, calling for the ball. He didn’t want to fade into the background—he had to make an impression.
The match was fast-paced, almost like a real competitive ga. The tackles were strong, the passing crisp, and the finishing clinical. De Gea made sharp saves, Pogba pulled off silky turns in midfield, and the defenders didn’t hold back.
David found himself tracking back at one point, pressing high at another. He had to be everywhere, proving he could handle the demands of Ten Hag’s system.
By the ti the final whistle blew, everyone was drained. So players collapsed onto the grass, catching their breath. Others walked off, grabbing water bottles, chatting in hushed tones about how the session had gone.
David wiped sweat from his forehead, feeling both exhausted and satisfied. He had given everything.
As the team walked back toward the dressing room, so players whispered among themselves. The speculation was already beginning. Who had done enough? Who would start tomorrow?
But nobody spoke about it outright. Not yet.
Tomorrow, the decision would be made. And all they could do now was wait.
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