The temperature in the boardroom at Carrington felt like it had risen five degrees.
It wasn’t the air conditioning—it was the heat of a brewing storm. Tension crackled in the room like static before a thunderclap. Ed Woodward, Executive Vice-Chairman of Manchester United, stood by the head of the long glass table, his suit jacket hanging off the back of a chair. His sleeves were rolled up, his expression thunderous, his forehead lightly glistening with frustration-fueled sweat. He was pressed, deeply pressed.
The boardroom wasn’t silent, far from it. It was chaos cloaked in professionalism, and each man in the room handled it in his own distinct, desperate way.
Richard Fairclough, the Head of Communications—PR chief, fixer, spin doctor—was pacing near the window with his phone jamd to his ear. His voice was low but urgent, a practiced whisper of negotiation honed from years of turning disasters into clickbait victories.
"No, no, don’t run the story," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose as he moved swiftly. "Yes, I know you have it. Everyone does. But I’m offering you sothing better. A one-on-one, all-access sit-down with Ronaldo. No filters. Full footage rights." A beat passed, and his tone sharpened. "Yes, I’m serious. But only if you bury this. Permanently."
He ended the call without even waiting for a proper goodbye and imdiately punched in another number. He didn’t even glance at the others. Ti was moving like a guillotine, and he had stories to kill.
On the other end of the room, Robert Lancing, a senior board mber with salt-and-pepper hair and a lawyer’s deanor, sat with his legs crossed and his voice calm but firm as he spoke into his phone.
"No, listen—this cannot get out, not in this window," Robert said, speaking to soone in legal or maybe soone in dia compliance. "If it airs, we’re opening ourselves to public ridicule, potential investor flight, and a goddamn sponsor panic." He paused. "I don’t care what footage The Sun says they have—find a way to kill it. You hear ? Find a way."
anwhile, seated at the far end of the table, Erik ten Hag looked like a man who’d been forced into the wrong war room. He wasn’t talking—not yet—but the tautness in his jawline, the way his eyes tracked the movent of the room with military precision, said enough. His fists were clenched. Not out of fear, but fury.
This was not what he had co to Manchester United for. This wasn’t football.
He had a squad to prepare. A system to enforce. A legacy to build. But instead of being on the grass with cones and balls, he was here, surrounded by n in suits who were too busy managing optics instead of managing the damn club.
He had been trying to process why two of his players—his players—had missed the morning’s session. One of them was Jadon Sancho, the club’s new signing. Ten Hag had never worked with him before and had already concluded that Sancho might be one of those preening, pampered prodigies with more flash than focus. Talented, yes—but entitled, arrogant. The kind of player who arrived with an entourage and left with a headline.
But the other... the other was different. David Jones.
Yes, Ten Hag hadn’t been too fond of the boy initially—he had been thrown into the squad based on the previous coach’s optics a reminder he still didn’t like. But over the past few weeks, Ten Hag had been watching. The kid was special. Airheaded sotis, yes. A bit cheeky, a bit raw. But his work ethic? Impeccable. One of the first to training. Part of the last to leave. And in between, he worked like a man fighting for a contract, not a 16-year-old being grood for stardom.
And now both of them—David and Sancho—had managed to get into a bloody car crash.
That had been bad enough.
But then ca the second half of the sentence: They’d fought. Not just argued. Fought. In public. And had gotten themselves arrested.
It was a headache of biblical proportions.
Ten Hag had only just been told the full story by one of Ed’s assistants—an earnest young man who approached him nervously during the warm-ups with a trembling voice and a hastily whispered "Sir, you’re needed in the boardroom. Imdiately. It’s... urgent."
Now, here he was, stuck in a pressure cooker with executives and phones and press officers while he should be reviewing tactics and shaping discipline.
"Coach," the assistant had said again after the initial brief. "They’re okay, no injuries. But... it’s bad. There’s footage. Arrest reports. Social dia is sniffing."
Ten Hag had sighed, more from frustration than relief. He didn’t care about the PR storm. Not in the sa way the suits did. But he cared about the distraction. About how this would affect his dressing room.
While Richard continued flipping between reporters like a circus juggler, and Robert whispered fire into the ears of dia lawyers, Ten Hag finally picked up his phone and made a call of his own.
"Is this Mr. Elkin?" he asked, speaking directly to Sancho’s Agent. "Yes, I’m Coach Ten Hag. I’ve been inford. They’re out, yes? On the way to the club?" He paced slowly, asured in tone but seething within.
"We’re doing our part," Elkin said. "We got them out, we’ve instructed them to say nothing, and their phones are off. We’re en route."
"Good," Ten Hag replied coldly. "Because we cannot have this surfacing. The season is starting. The dia won’t care about the details. They’ll care about the nas—Jadon Sancho. David Jones. Manchester United."
"We understand, coach."
He continued, "We’ve already arranged for the vehicles to be towed. Any evidence linking them to the club—erased. We’ll manage the optics from here. But I need one thing—discipline. I want those boys in front of . Today."
There was a silence, then, "Of course."
Ten Hag ended the call. He didn’t sit down. He didn’t want to sit down. His energy was simring, like an athlete benched for reasons beyond his control.
He glanced at the room—the pristine boardroom filled with clean suits and dirty secrets—and his face twisted slightly. Disdain. This wasn’t his world. This wasn’t his ga.
Ed, anwhile, had remained silent for the most part, his eyes locked on his phone screen, reading sothing, probably emails, statents, legal projections. When he finally lifted his head, it was to look at Ten Hag directly.
"They’re on their way," Ed said, finally breaking the tension with a voice that was calm but heavy. "We’ll need you to speak too. As manager. A few words, off the record maybe, to show this is under control."
Ten Hag didn’t reply. Not imdiately.
Then, just as Richard was about to speak into his phone again, a knock echoed sharply against the door.
Four heads turned.
Richard and Robert stayed glued to their calls, gesturing for a mont’s pause.
Ed Woodward straightened his back, adjusted his cufflinks, and brought the phone back to his ear. "That should be them," he said smoothly, transitioning from the call to the room. "Okay, n. See you soon. We’ll finalize the strategy after this."
He ended the call.
Then, with the air of a man who had dealt with fires before, he said:
"Co in."
The knock barely echoed twice before the heavy door opened, and three figures stepped in.
Jadon Sancho walked in first, hands in the pockets of his track pants, shoulders stiff, face unreadable—but the irritation was obvious in the slight twitch of his jaw. Next to him, David Jones looked like he’d been dropped into a war zone. His eyes darted across the room, landing briefly on each man before dropping to the carpet.
Bringing up the rear was Maxwell Harris, the club’s Head of Legal Affairs—a young, sharp-eyed man in a grey suit and black tie, calm like soone who’d already won the battle before stepping into the ring.
Ed Woodward didn’t waste a second. He didn’t offer seats. He didn’t smile.
"Maxwell," he said, voice clipped. "What’s the situation? Any charges? Will this escalate?"
Maxwell adjusted his glasses, already speaking with calculated smoothness. "We’ve settled it. Police have been... reminded of the club’s cooperation in the past. CCTV from the hospital shows no major assault, just pushing and shouting. Nobody’s pressing charges. They were more frightened than anything else—so legal muscle and a few well-placed phrases did the trick."
He smiled faintly, without humor. "They’ll forget about it by lunchti."
"Good," Ed said, voice still taut. "Good."
Then he turned, eyes moving to the two players.
Sancho still looked peeved, arms folded but respectful. David, in contrast, looked like he wanted the floor to open and swallow him whole. The fluorescent lights above did him no favors—he looked pale, wide-eyed, and far too young to be standing in a boardroom facing Manchester United’s top brass.
Ed’s face softened, just slightly. "Are you boys okay?" he asked, voice more human now.
Both players turned toward him. Sancho spoke first, calm and respectful. "Yes, sir. I’m fine. I’m... really sorry about all this. Wasn’t my intention to make a scene."
David nodded quickly. " too. Sorry for the trouble," he mumbled, glancing nervously around the room. Everyone was staring at him.
Ed noticed and gave a reassuring smile. "Don’t worry, lads. We’ll handle it. Trust , this isn’t our first rodeo."
He leaned back in his chair slightly, letting so of the tension ease. "Your cars have already been collected. They’ll be back here soon. Once we’re done, head to the dical bay, get checked. If you’re cleared, join the rest on the pitch. Simple as that."
Both nodded, grateful to be spared a deeper scolding.
Then Ed turned to Ten Hag. "We’re sorry for this, Coach. We’re a bit short-handed thanks to the virus."
Ten Hag gave a small nod, voice even but firm. "It’s fine. Let’s just get back to the main thing."
But before anyone could respond, a sharp ringtone cut through the room.
It was shrill, insistent. The kind of ring that didn’t belong to a personal call. Everyone checked their phones automatically. The room had been a hive of buzzing and pinging all morning, but this one was different.
Then—Ed froze.
His hand hovered over the table. His face twitched.
"...It’s mine," he said, voice unusually quiet. There was sothing off in his tone.
Everyone turned to look at him.
Ed glanced at the screen, and for a mont, just stared at the na.
"It’s the President," he said.
The words struck like a slap.
Silence fell. Not the silence of calm, but the kind that cos before a storm.
Everyone in the room knew what "President" ant. Not the country. Not FIFA.
It ant Joel Glazer—the owner. The man who rarely called anyone but expected everything.
And Ed Woodward—so often the picture of icy corporate calm—looked... shaken.
He slowly lifted the phone and pressed it to his ear. "Joel," he began, trying to steady his voice. "Good morning. Listen, there’s been a small incide—"
"WHAT THE HELL AM I HEARING, ED?!"
The voice thundered through the phone so loudly it was audible to the nearest few.
Ed flinched.
"JOEL, I can expl—"
"I’M GETTING CALLS FROM NEW YORK, FROM BLOODY SPONSORS, ED! FROM NIKE! NIKE!"
"Listen, it’s being taken care of. The boys are fine. There’s no—"
"NO POLICE?! THEY WERE TAKEN INTO A HOSPITAL CUFFED, ED. ARE YOU INSANE?!"
Ed, now sweating slightly, winced and held the phone away from his ear.
Without thinking, he tapped speaker mode.
And the room froze.
The voice now filled the room—sharp, furious, Arican-accented and utterly dominant.
"WHO?!"
The single word bood like a gavel. Cold. Final.
David flinched. His breath hitched. Sothing about the way Joel said it made the room feel smaller. Tighter.
Maxwell glanced at David, then back to Ed.
"WHO WAS THE ONE WHO STARTED ALL THIS?!"
The silence was suffocating.
Ed looked at Ten Hag, who said nothing. Sancho turned slowly to glance at David.
David’s lips parted slightly, but no words ca.
Then Joel’s voice dropped. A level lower. More dangerous.
"...Tell who caused this. Now."
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