David was slouched on his couch, utterly defeated. After losing yet another match to Zoey, he was now venting his frustrations out loud. "This is ridiculous! How does she keep doing that? I score first, and then she just... I don’t know, becos an AI cheat code or sothing!"
Zoey’s voice ca through the headset, completely unfazed. "Dude, you had your mont, now it’s my turn. You’re welco to try again after I finish this ga."
David groaned. "I swear, if I lose this next one... I’m going to eat my controller."
That was when the doorbell rang. His eyes flickered toward the door. "Oh great. The food’s here. At least I get so Chinese to drown my sorrows."
He got up lazily and walked to the door, muttering under his breath about the string of bad luck he had with Zoey and the endless string of losses. "My order’s around," he called out, not really expecting much.
He opened the door, ready for his usual Chinese takeaway. "Just leave it and step back," David instructed, still in a bad mood. He needed the food—at least that could make him feel sowhat better. But just as he reached for the bag of food, sothing unexpected happened.
A hand grabbed his arm, and before he could process what was going on, his fist was already in the air. David instinctively swung, landing a solid punch.
"OW!" the person yelped, stumbling back and clutching his face.
David froze, confused. "Wait... what?"
The man staggered, rubbing his swollen eye. It was the sa guy from earlier—the one who’d co with the ridiculous ’agent’ story. Jonathan, or whatever his na was.
David, shocked at the turn of events, quickly realized the situation. "Hey, are you alright?" he asked, genuinely concerned, but then caught himself. "Wait, what am I saying? Are you mad? Do you want to infect or sothing? Are you from one of the teams I scored against? This is low, man. I know I probably destroyed your team, but this—this is not the way to go about it."
Jonathan winced, rubbing his eye with a painful expression. "Kid... what’s your deal?" he grumbled.
David was still on edge, his anger flaring up again. "Aren’t you the one with the problem? Why the hell are you grabbing my arm like that?"
Jonathan grimaced, wiping blood from his lip. "I ca to give you a massive opportunity, and this is how you treat ?"
David stared at him, now growing annoyed. "I told you—I don’t want your stupid opportunity! Look at yourself, man. Go give yourself an opportunity before coming here to offer one." He stepped back, his temper rising. "What am I even doing arguing with you? I’m calling the cops."
He turned to head back inside, but before he could, Jonathan grabbed his arm again. This ti, David didn’t hold back. Another punch—right to Jonathan’s stomach.
"Are you INSANE?" Jonathan shouted, coughing from the hit.
David snapped back, "No, I’m just trying to live in peace. You’ve been stalking for hours. What is this, man?"
Jonathan, groaning, pulled sothing from his pocket—his phone. "See this?" he said, showing David the screen. "Manchester United really wants to sign you. They’re interested. Look."
David raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "Dude, you do know I’m half Nigerian, right? Are you planning to scam or sothing? This can’t be real."
Jonathan, now visibly desperate, shook his head. "Just hold up. I’m calling them. Hold on a second."
David, still unconvinced, rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure. Let guess—this is the mont where you tell ’you’re special’ and ’we need you’ like so movie scene."
But Jonathan didn’t reply imdiately. Instead, he started dialing a number on his phone. David just stood there, growing increasingly irritated.
Just as he was about to walk inside, annoyed that his dinner was getting cold, a voice sounded from Jonathan’s phone.
"Hello, is this David Jones?" The voice was calm, authoritative—definitely not sothing David expected.
David froze, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He couldn’t believe it.
"Yeah, this is David. Who’s this?" he asked, a touch of suspicion creeping in.
"Hi, David," the voice continued. "This is Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. I’m calling from Manchester United."
David’s heart skipped a beat. He glanced at Jonathan, who now looked like he’d just won the lottery.
David, not sure whether to laugh or facepalm, took a deep breath. "Are you serious?"
Jonathan nodded eagerly, his eye still swollen from the punch. "Told you, kid. This is the real deal."
David still wasn’t sure what to believe. After all, this could easily be so elaborate prank. But hearing the na of the manager from Manchester United, there was a small part of him that couldn’t ignore the possibility.
Ole’s voice ca through the phone again, more relaxed. "We’ve seen your clips, David. You’ve got talent. We want to bring you in. This is the opportunity you and us have been waiting for."
David’s mind raced. Was this real? Was it possible? Or was it just another scam waiting to unravel?
But for now, the only thing he was sure about was that his evening had just gotten a whole lot more interesting.
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