The Next Big Thing
Chapter 108: Optimism II

Chapter 108: Optimism II

David arrived outside Old Trafford, the iconic stadium towering before him like a monument to his dreams. Even now, butterflies fluttered in his stomach as he gazed at it, a mix of excitement and nerves coursing through him. A smile spread across his face as he opened the car door.

"I’ll come help you," Prakesh said, already reaching to step out from the driver’s seat.

David quickly waved him off, shaking his head. "It’s fine, it’s fine. I got it," he assured, carefully maneuvering himself out of the car. He adjusted his crutches and stood upright, taking a moment to stabilize before glancing back at the driver.

"Thanks for the ride," David said, squatting slightly to meet Prakesh’s eye level. "Really enjoyed it."

Prakesh grinned, his warm smile matching his sunny personality. "No, the pleasure is mine," he replied.

David nodded, his grin widening. "Okay then, bye."

"Bye!" Prakesh called back, waving.

David turned to head toward the stadium entrance, but before he could take more than a few steps, Prakesh’s voice rang out behind him.

"Wait! Wait! Wait!"

David turned, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Did I forget something? he wondered, looking back at the driver who was now scrambling out of the car and jogging toward him.

Prakesh stopped in front of him, holding out a small card. "Here," he said, slightly out of breath. "Take this. If you need me to drive you somewhere—or, you know, when you start flexing that athlete money and need a driver—I’m your guy."

David burst out laughing, shaking his head at the man’s playful enthusiasm. He reached out to take the card, but before he could grab it, Prakesh exclaimed, "Wait!" again, freezing David mid-motion.

This time, Prakesh ran back to his car, leaving David standing there with his mouth half-open in surprise. He watched as the driver rummaged inside, finally emerging with a disinfectant spray.

With great ceremony, Prakesh sprayed the card thoroughly, giving it a few extra spritzes for good measure. "COVID, you know," he said with a grin, handing the card over.

David couldn’t help but laugh, pocketing the card with a shake of his head. "You’re something else, Prakesh."

"Go and crush it!" Prakesh said, clapping him on the shoulder before heading back to the car.

David waved him off, still chuckling as he turned toward the stadium entrance. As he hobbled forward on his crutches, the butterflies in his stomach began to settle, replaced by a steady sense of determination. Meeting someone like Prakesh had lifted his spirits—an eccentric, kind soul who made the moment feel lighter.

He glanced back at the black Range Rover as it pulled away, a small smile on his face. Pocketing the card again, he muttered to himself, "Guess I’ve already got a fan."

As David approached the stadium gate, he immediately spotted the same security guard from his last visit. He groaned inwardly and muttered under his breath, "Great, him again."

When he reached the front, he opened his mouth to speak, but the guard beat him to it, shouting enthusiastically, "David Jones!"

David raised an eyebrow, staring at the man with a mix of confusion and disbelief. The guard’s grin stretched wide, almost unnaturally so, as if he’d been waiting for this moment all day.

"David, my man, what’s going on?" the guard said, his voice overly friendly.

David’s expression didn’t change. He tilted his head slightly, studying the man’s awkwardly exaggerated cheeriness. Then, suddenly, he burst out laughing. "Dude, what are you doing?" he said between laughs.

The guard’s grin faltered as his cheeks turned pink. "Ehm, nothing. Just... just greeting you," he stammered, clearly embarrassed.

David doubled over with laughter. "Oh, really? you don’t need me to show you my name on Fabrizio Romano’s page again? Or maybe that picture of me with Rooney? Since that seemed to do the trick last time," he teased.

The guard, whose name tag read Philip, clenched his jaw as his eye twitched slightly. He felt the urge to defend himself, but the memory of his awkward mishap from David’s last visit still stung. Back then, he’d mistaken David for an overly ambitious fan trying to sneak in. And now, here he was, dealing with the actual Manchester United player, who happened to be 16 and laughing at him.

’How was I supposed to know he was legit?’ Philip thought bitterly. The assistant coach himself had later clarified that David was a rising star the club valued highly. But standing here now, watching this skinny, crutch-wielding kid cackle at his expense, Philip still struggled to reconcile the image of David with the hype surrounding him.

He faked a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. "No, no, none of that’s needed," he said hastily. Then, with a sheepish look, he added, "And about last time... I’m, uh, sorry about it."

David’s laughter slowed to a chuckle as he raised an amused brow.

Philip sighed, feeling the full weight of embarrassment. Here he was, apologizing to someone at least five years his junior. ’This world’s not fair,’ he thought. He quickly tried to justify himself. "Honestly, it wasn’t my fault. No one told me you were coming that day. How was I supposed to know?"

Then, realizing he was rambling, Philip muttered under his breath, "And who shows up like that anyway? No tour, no guide. What kind of—"

David caught him mumbling and gave him a pointed stare, which made Philip freeze mid-sentence.

"Ha-ha! I mean, it was all probably just because of COVID, right?" Philip said, forcing another awkward laugh.

David shook his head, still grinning. "It’s not a problem. Really," he said, his tone lighthearted. He glanced at the gate, then back at Philip. "Well, can I go on ahead now? I’ve got a checkup to get to."

Philip jolted upright, giving a quick nod. "Yeah, yeah! Of course, go right in," he said, stepping aside.

David hobbled forward, the remnants of a wide grin still on his face. As he passed through the gate, he stopped in his tracks, his expression shifting to one of resolve. "Not this time," he muttered to himself, thinking back to how he’d gotten hopelessly lost on his first visit.

He turned around and called out to Philip, who was already watching him like a hawk. "Hey, where’s the medical room?"

Philip perked up, eager to redeem himself. "Oh, it’s straight down the hallway, take a left at the second corridor, and it’s the third door on your right," he said quickly.

David nodded, flashing him a grin. "Thanks, mate. Got it this time."

Philip watched him go, exhaling a sigh of relief. At least I didn’t mess that up.

David moved through the hallway with purpose, following the directions he’d been given. When he finally arrived at his destination, he stopped in front of an old wooden door, its surface worn with scratches and faded paint, though it still held an air of purpose. Smiling to himself, he raised a hand and knocked gently.

After a few moments, a deep, somewhat distracted voice called out from within, "Come in."

David pushed the door open, stepping inside. The medical room before him was functional but far from pristine. The walls were painted in a faded beige, chipped in places, with posters of anatomical diagrams peeling at the edges. A sturdy but battered steel desk sat in one corner, cluttered with papers, a few medical instruments, and an outdated computer. The hospital bed in the center of the room was clean but slightly worn, the leather padding cracked from years of use. The faint hum of a fan in the corner filled the quiet room, and a faint antiseptic smell lingered in the air.

Standing at the desk was a man in his mid-40s, wearing a lab coat. His short-cropped hair was streaked with gray, and he was focused on the computer screen, typing away.

David’s gaze roamed the room before he spoke. "Hello."

The man didn’t turn around, but his voice came, calm and assured. "David Jones, right?"

David blinked in surprise, then nodded instinctively, even though the man wasn’t looking at him. "Yes, that’s me," he said, his voice steady.

"Alright," the man replied, still typing. "Take a seat on the hospital bed. I’ll be with you in a moment."

David smiled and hobbled over to the bed, carefully lowering himself onto it. He leaned his crutches against the side and sat with his weight shifted slightly to avoid straining his injured leg. One hand rested on the edge of the bed, his fingers tapping lightly against the leather, while his other hand propped him up. He glanced around the room again, a small smile playing on his lips.

His thoughts wandered as he sat there. This is it, he thought. The future he had been dreaming of and working toward was finally within reach.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the stadium, Ole Gunnar Solskjær stood in front of a whiteboard in his office, deep in thought. His sharp eyes scanned the lineup he’d been building for next season. The names on the board were familiar—De Gea, Maguire, Rashford—but one name in particular stood out to him, positioned boldly on the right wing: David Jones.

Ole’s intense focus was broken when the door swung open, and Mike Phelan, his assistant coach, walked in. Mike had come to discuss training plans, but he paused mid-stride when he noticed the board Ole was staring at. His eyes scanned the names, and when they landed on David Jones, he froze.

"David Jones?" Mike said aloud, almost shouting in disbelief.

Ole jumped, startled by the outburst. "Jesus, Mike!" he exclaimed, spinning around to glare at him. "What’s wrong with you? Why are you shouting?"

Mike ignored the question, still staring at the board. "David Jones? You’re planning to start the kid?" he asked incredulously, pointing at the name.

Ole chuckled softly, turning back to the board. "Relax, Mike. This is all for next season. Don’t worry about it," he said, dismissing the concern as he walked over to his chair and sat down.

Mike wasn’t convinced. "The kid is 16, Ole. Sixteen! And what about Martial? He’s been our best attacker this season! You really want to bench him for a teenager?"

Ole leaned back in his chair, a calm smile on his face. "Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing," he said confidently. "This squad is going to take the league by storm next season. And that kid? He’s going to be at the center of it all. Just wait and see."

Mike frowned but didn’t push further. Ole’s gaze returned to the board, his eyes lingering on the name David Jones. He smiled to himself, leaning back in his chair as he muttered softly, "This is it."

But while player and coach were both envisioning the future, elsewhere in the stadium, another event was unfolding—one that could reshape that very future.

Inside the office of Ed Woodward, Manchester United’s CEO, the atmosphere was heavy. Woodward stood by the window, staring out at the pitch in the distance. With a sigh, he picked up his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he landed on one: Joel Glazer.

The phone rang a few times before the line connected. Without hesitation, Woodward spoke, his voice measured but firm. "Sir, I just finished the negotiations. Yes, Ajax agreed."

With those words, the wheels of change were set in motion, and the future of Manchester United began to shift in ways no one could predict.