The lineup appeared on the screen in the locker room, and David’s heart pounded as he saw his na among the starters. He looked around and found himself in the middle of the pitch in his mind’s eye. A slow smile spread across his face as he turned to his teammates, absorbing the mont.
Aaron Wan-Bissaka at right-back. Harry Maguire and Victor Lindelöf as the center-back duo. Luke Shaw at left-back. David de Gea in goal. The midfield trio—Bruno Fernandes as the attacking midfielder, Paul Pogba in central midfield, and Scott McTominay as the defensive anchor. Up front, Marcus Rashford on the left, Cristiano Ronaldo as the main striker, and David himself on the right wing.
His body surged with energy, an electric charge firing through his veins. He had been picked. This was his chance. He clenched his fists in excitent, feeling his muscles tighten in anticipation. Then, a shadow lood over him.
Ronaldo.
"Okay, kid," the legend smirked. "Ti to show those assists you’ve been talking about."
David chuckled, nodding, but inside, his focus was razor-sharp. Assists? Sure. But he had his eyes on the goal, too. He wasn’t just here to supply chances—he was here to leave his mark.
As they stepped onto the pitch, the atmosphere was surreal. The stadium was empty. No roaring fans, no deafening chants—just silence, save for the occasional echoes of voices and the sounds of boots scuffing the grass. It was almost eerie, but David didn’t mind. If anything, it made him even more locked in. Today wasn’t about the crowd. It was about proving himself.
The Aston Villa squad lined up against them. Emi Martinez in goal. Matty Cash, Ezri Konsa, Tyrone Mings, and Matt Targett forming the backline. Douglas Luiz, John McGinn, and Ross Barkley in midfield. And up front—Bertrand Traoré, Ollie Watkins, and Jack Grealish.
The referee stepped forward, placed the ball in the center circle, and blew the whistle.
Ronaldo took the kickoff, tapping the ball to David.
As soon as the ball reached his feet, David felt everything fade away—the pressure, the expectations, the nerves. All that mattered was the ga. A grin tugged at his lips. Let’s go.
He took his first touch, shifting the ball forward with his right foot, before flicking it past an onrushing McGinn with a smooth elastico. McGinn stumbled, montarily losing balance, and David darted past him, moving into space.
Aston Villa’s left-back, Matt Targett, rushed in to close him down. David slowed, body feinting to the right before dragging the ball back with the inside of his foot and shifting left in a blink. Targett lunged—and missed. The ball was already rolling ahead as David accelerated down the wing.
Ezri Konsa ca next, stepping up to block his path. David flicked the ball up with his left foot, then tapped it over Konsa’s outstretched leg with his right. Konsa twisted, but David was already gone, gliding past him like a shadow.
He kept going, the ball glued to his feet, before stopping abruptly near the edge of the box. A quick fake shot sent Douglas Luiz lunging the wrong way, and with a swift Cruyff turn, David spun into space, lifting his head to scan the area.
Ronaldo was making a run into the box. Rashford peeled off his marker. Bruno was lurking near the top of the penalty area. Options.
But David wasn’t done yet.
He rolled the ball under his studs, teasing his marker before flicking it behind his standing leg in a stylish sombrero flick over Mings’ head. The center-back spun, trying to track the ball, but David was already past him, collecting it on the other side.
Gasps echoed from the benches. Even in an empty stadium, the sheer brilliance of the move had left his teammates stunned.
Now, he had a choice—pass or shoot.
He chose the latter.
Shifting the ball onto his left foot, he unleashed a curling shot toward the far post. It was dipping, curving, perfect—but Martinez reacted swiftly, diving full stretch to palm it away.
David let out a breath, watching as the ball spun out for a corner. He grinned.
The ga was just getting started.
The evening was calm in Dortmund, the sky painted in a deep shade of blue as the city lights flickered to life. Inside Jadon Sancho’s luxurious ho, the atmosphere was relaxed but held an underlying tension. The living room was spacious, modern, and tastefully decorated, with a few personal touches that reflected Sancho’s journey—frad jerseys, signed footballs, and trophies from his ti in both England and Germany.
Seated on a sleek leather couch, Sancho leaned back, his eyes studying Ed Woodward, who sat across from him with a confident smile. Woodward, dressed sharply in a suit, exuded an air of authority, but tonight, he was in full salesman mode.
"You know, Jadon, Manchester United is gearing up for sothing big," Woodward started, swirling the drink in his hand. "We’ve brought in heavy hitters—Cristiano Ronaldo, Bruno Fernandes... players who know how to win. But you... you’re our main buy. You’re the one we’ve had our eyes on for years."
Sancho smirked slightly, reaching for a bottle of water on the coffee table. He twisted off the cap and took a sip before setting it down. "I know you guys have been pushing for . I won’t lie, it’s flattering. But Dortmund... it’s ho. I’ve built sothing here. The fans love . I know the system, and I’m playing so of my best football. Why should I leave all that?"
Woodward leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Sancho’s. "Because you’re ant for the Premier League, Jadon. The best league in the world. You grew up in England. You know the passion, the energy, the intensity. Imagine lighting up Old Trafford, playing in front of seventy-five thousand fans chanting your na. You’d be a hero."
Sancho chuckled, shaking his head. "I won’t deny it sounds tempting. But let’s be real—Dortmund has been great for my developnt. I have freedom here. The Bundesliga gives space to be expressive. The pressure isn’t as insane as in England. I can just play my ga."
Sitting beside Sancho, his agent nodded but interjected, "That’s true, but Jadon, you’ve always been ambitious. You want to be the best. And if you really want to compete at the highest level, the Premier League is the next step."
Woodward seized the mont. "Exactly. Look at what you’ve achieved here. Now, think of what you could do at United. You’ll be linking up with Bruno, Rashford, Pogba... and of course, Ronaldo. That’s a dream team right there."
Sancho rubbed his chin, considering the prospect. He wasn’t blind to the appeal. Playing for Manchester United, one of the biggest clubs in the world, was a childhood dream. Yet, Dortmund had given him everything—a stage, a ho, a sense of belonging.
Woodward, sensing his hesitation, leaned back and smirked. "And let’s not pretend the pay is anything to laugh at."
That got a chuckle out of Sancho. "Fair point."
His agent, ever the businessman, spoke up. "United is making a serious investnt here. They believe in you, Jadon. They see you as the face of their future. This isn’t just another transfer. This is about legacy."
Sancho sighed, running a hand through his hair. He reached for the whiskey bottle on the table, pouring himself a small glass before gesturing towards Woodward. "You want one?"
Woodward grinned. "Why not?" He watched as Sancho poured him a drink, the two n sharing a brief, understanding glance. This was more than just business—it was about trust.
The conversation continued, laughter mixing with negotiation, playful jabs about English weather and the Manchester rain. But through it all, one thing beca clear—Sancho was seriously considering it.
And when the final handshake ca, it wasn’t just a deal—it was a turning point.
As Woodward stood up, adjusting his suit, he pulled out his phone. The line rang once, twice, and then a voice answered.
With a triumphant grin, Woodward simply said, "Sir, we just got him."
anwhile, Back at Old Trafford
The floodlights cast their cold glow over the empty Old Trafford stands, their silence almost eerie. The only sound that filled the air was the sharp echo of voices, the rhythmic thud of boots against the pitch, and the occasional whistle of the referee.
David Jones was locked in, his heart hamring in his chest—not from nerves, but from adrenaline. The ball was at his feet, and as far as he was concerned, the pitch was his canvas.
Aston Villa’s defense was no joke. Tyrone Mings was already barking orders, pointing at David as he approached. Matty Cash, quick and aggressive, was the first to close in.
David didn’t panic. He let the ball roll just slightly ahead before stopping it dead with the inside of his boot. The hesitation was enough—Cash lunged, expecting a burst of pace, but David shifted his weight, cutting inside instead. One touch, then another, and Cash was left behind.
Douglas Luiz was next. The Brazilian ca charging in, his body low, ready to muscle David off the ball. But David had already read him. With a quick step-over, he shifted the ball to his left, then instantly flicked it back to his right, leaving Luiz off balance.
Ezri Konsa saw the danger and stepped up, blocking David’s path, but David didn’t need to get past him—he had already spotted his target.
Cristiano Ronaldo.
Without breaking stride, David rolled the ball forward, then, in a split-second, scooped it into the air with the outside of his foot. The pass floated over Konsa, spinning delicately as it fell right into Ronaldo’s path.
Ronaldo didn’t even need to take a touch. One step, then BOOM. His right foot connected cleanly, sending the ball rocketing into the top corner.
Even with the stadium empty, the celebration was electric. Ronaldo turned, pointing straight at David with a knowing smirk, as if to say, That’s what I was waiting for.
David grinned, his body still buzzing. He had just delivered an assist for Cristiano Ronaldo, and it was a beauty.
But as he stood there, soaking in the mont, David Jones remained oblivious to the fact that a massive shift was about to befall Manchester United.
Author’s Note:
First and foremost, I want to apologize to those who downloaded the previous Chapter. I’ve tried changing and updating it, but for so reason, it hasn’t reflected the changes. I deeply apologize for this—it’s been really frustrating, and I feel so, so bad if you had already downloaded it. I’m truly sorry for the inconvenience and appreciate your patience and understanding.
Also, thank you all so much for the past month—your gifts, the golden tickets, and all the support! If you’ve noticed, I’ve stopped writing these author notes here, but that’s not because I’m less grateful. So people told that it costs you extra money, so from now on, I’ll include them in the author’s note. You all an so much to , and I can’t thank you enough.
Special thanks to DotGov
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