The Next Big Thing
Chapter 118: Shocking News IV

Chapter 118: Shocking News IV

Manchester United.

A name that carried weight.

If you watched football, chances were, you knew Manchester United. Now at 2020, football had four billion fans in a world of 7.8 billion people—more than half the planet followed the sport. It had truly earned its name: "The World’s Sport."

And in a world like ours, at least half of those people had heard of Manchester United. It was a club synonymous with football itself, a name etched in history, a club with hundreds of millions of fans, a club that once dominated the sport under the legendary Sir Alex Ferguson.

But those glory days felt like a distant memory.

The club was now a shadow of what it once was, a sleeping giant trying to find its way back to the top. Year after year, manager after manager, disappointment after disappointment. And now, on this day—August 16, 2020—the club had finally reached yet another turning point.

After weeks of speculation, debates, and heated discussions in the manchester united boardroom, the inevitable had happened.

Manchester United had sacked their head coach.

The news hit like a lightning bolt through the footballing universe.

Everywhere you turned, people were talking about it. Pundits, former players, rival fans, journalists, YouTubers, Twitter fan accounts—every single corner of the internet was engulfed in this breaking news.

And in the center of that storm, among the countless people reacting to the announcement, two individuals were feeling the weight of the moment more than most.

The first was David Jones—Manchester United’s newest signing, a highly rated 21-year-old winger brought in for a hefty fee of $18 million.

He was sitting in the middle of his barely arranged apartment in Manchester, surrounded by unopened moving boxes, a few pieces of scattered furniture, and an oversized television rested on the wall. A PS5 controller was in one hand, while his other held a fork. His attention, however, was split between Fortnite on the screen and the half-eaten burnt cheesecake on the table beside him.

The smell of the overcooked dessert lingered in the air, the edges completely blackened from his failed attempt at baking.

From his headset, a feminine voice cut through the sound of gunfire and footsteps in the game.

"Are you eating it like that?"

David chewed, his face scrunching slightly at the bitter taste. He ignored it. Food was food. He swallowed hard before responding.

"What? Why wouldn’t I?" he said defensively, still pressing buttons on the controller as his character aimlessly followed another player in the game.

"Weren’t you the one who said it was burnt? Dude, are you for real? Just order something."

David sighed, glancing down at the tray beside him. The cheesecake really did look like a disaster. The golden-brown crust he had hoped for was instead a charred mess. Even the inside looked dry.

But he wasn’t a quitter.

He grabbed another piece and shoved it into his mouth just as Zoey’s voice came again, laced with disbelief.

"Dude, you have money now. Don’t behave like some broke dude. Go order something if you’re hungry."

David groaned loudly. He hated when she was right.

The moment the burnt taste hit his tongue again, he exhaled sharply and dropped the fork, defeated. The food was bad. He knew it. She knew it. But he didn’t want to admit it.

Still, there was no point torturing himself.

"Protect me, I’m coming. Let me order something."

He tossed his controller onto the couch with a sigh, grabbed his phone, and swiped through his food delivery app.

David placed his phone on the table after ordering from Slattery. Another cheesecake—this time, one that was actually edible. He had caved in to his cravings and used his Uber Eats app to make the order.

Just as he was about to return to his game, something on his phone caught his eye.

A notification.

His curiosity shooting up when he saw the name attached to it.

Fabrizio Romano.

David had Romano’s notifications turned on. He wasn’t just a player of the sport—he was a fan too. So having someone like Fabrizio on was a must, honestly fab had given him one of the best feelings in the world, Seeing his own name pop up in a Romano tweet it had made him geek out a little when it happened.

He had grown up following transfer news, contract talks, club rumors—everything. And now, as a professional, being the subject of those reports felt surreal.

Still holding his controller in one hand, he tapped on the notification with the other, his thumb lazily scrolling.

"I’m back. Ordered already."

He barely paid attention as he said it, his eyes flickering between the phone and the TV, moving his character slightly in-game.

"Oh, okay then." Zoey’s voice came through his headset, sounding distracted.

David, meanwhile, had landed on Romano’s profile. His eyes instinctively went to the pinned tweet—probably the latest "Here we go" announcement about some transfer. He skimmed it absentmindedly, walking around in the game with his free hand, only half-reading.

Then, suddenly—

His half-attention turned into full attention.

Then confusion.

Then disbelief.

His brows furrowed, his lips parting slightly as his brain processed the words on the screen.

"Ehn?"

The involuntary sound escaped him before he even realized it.

What the hell did he just read?

The controller in his hand went slack. His character stopped moving.

A beat of silence passed before Zoey, hearing his reaction, immediately grew concerned.

"What happened? Did they cancel your order? Are you okay?"

David didn’t answer.

His fingers were scrolling faster, eyes darting from tweet to tweet, checking the comment sections, looking for context—looking for anything that would tell him this was some kind of hoax.

But no.

It was real.

His voice finally came out, slow and disbelieving.

"Ole has been sacked."

The weight of the words sat heavily in the air.

Zoey, still on the other end, took a moment to process it before responding.

"Wait—Ole? As in... your coach?"

David exhaled sharply, blinking in shock.

"Yeah. He’s been fired. Fabrizio posted it. Other channels are talking about it now. How can this be? He just entered last season... why would they—?"

He kept talking, almost rambling, still trying to wrap his head around the sudden announcement.

But no matter how much he said, no matter how many tweets he read, the reality was sinking in fast.

Manchester United had just sacked their manager.

"Why would they sack him" the words coming out again from his mouth

"Are you sure it’s real? Have you checked Manchester United’s official page?" Zoey asked cautiously.

David barely registered her words. His mind was still spinning, trying to process everything.

"What are you saying? I just told you—everyone is saying it. It’s confirmed!" He shot back, his voice rushed, impatient.

Zoey, however, wasn’t convinced.

"I just checked United’s page. They haven’t posted anything yet. Maybe they made a mistake."

David stopped scrolling for a brief second. His grip on the phone tightened.

Mistake?

His jaw clenched as he exhaled sharply.

"Stop. Just stop." His frustration bled into his tone. "Fab is always right. They really fired him. He’s just always faster. Fuck, man."

His voice trailed off as he leaned back into the couch, running a hand down his face. The reality of it was setting in.

While David was still spiraling, struggling to wrap his head around the news, the second person—someone who felt this news even more than he did—was just now finding out.

The airport lights cast a soft glow on the Manchester United team as they made their way toward the club’s private plane. Their loss still lingered in the air, but Ole Gunnar Solskjær, ever the optimist, walked with his usual calm demeanor. He turned to the players, offering them a reassuring smile despite the sting of defeat.

"Keep your heads up, boys," he said, voice steady. "This is just one season. Football is about ups and downs. Next season, we go again."

Some nodded, others forced smiles, but the disappointment was clear. He understood it. He felt it too.

As they climbed into the plane, Ole turned to his assistant, Mike Phelan, settling into the seat beside him.

"We need to start drafting plans for next season," he said, his mind already moving forward. "We’ll sit down with the board next week, see what we need, make some calls—"

Mike gave a small nod, but something about his expression was... off. Ole didn’t dwell on it. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, exhaling deeply.

The loss gnawed at him. It was never easy. He closed his eyes, willing himself to rest, even if only for a moment.

But then... something felt strange.

A faint murmuring spread through the cabin. The voices were hushed, but constant. The players—normally drained and quiet after a tough game—were whispering. And they kept looking at him.

Frowning, Ole straightened up, scanning the faces around him. Why were they staring at him like that?

Before he could ask, his phone dinged. A message.

His heart clenched. Maybe it was from his wife, offering words of comfort after the loss. Maybe his family, reminding him that football was just a game, that he was more than a manager.

Unlocking his phone, his eyes flickered to the notification. But instead of warmth, he was met with a barrage of messages.

Jim Solbakken: I know you’ve seen the news.Jim Solbakken: I’m calling the club already. Are you okay?Jim Solbakken: Ignore everything. Don’t say anything.

Ole’s brows furrowed. What news?

His stomach tightened. Unlike most people, he didn’t have a Twitter account. He wasn’t plugged into the social media frenzy. But the way his agent was talking... the way the players were still whispering, still looking at him...

Something was wrong.

His pulse quickened.

He quickly typed back: "What’s wrong?"

No reply.

The murmuring around him seemed to grow louder, the air suddenly suffocating. His chest felt tight.

Needing answers, he turned, looking over his seat. His gaze landed on Marcus Rashford, who was scrolling through his phone, his face unreadable.

"Hey, Rashford," Ole said, forcing his voice to stay level. "Let me see your phone."

Rashford hesitated for a second but then, wordlessly, handed it over.

Ole took the phone, his eyes immediately locking onto the glaring headline in bold red.

BREAKING: MANCHESTER UNITED SACK OLE GUNNAR SOLSKJÆR.

The world seemed to tilt.

For a moment, everything around him faded.

Ole stared at the screen, unblinking. The words blurred, but no matter how many times he read them, they didn’t change. Sacked.

His breath hitched. His chest tightened painfully.

This had to be a mistake.

Rashford gently took his phone back, his voice soft, almost guilty. "Sorry, gaffer."

Ole didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

His heart pounded so hard it echoed in his ears. His breathing became shallow. He sat back in his seat, gripping the armrests as if they were the only thing keeping him from crumbling.

His phone kept buzzing, but he didn’t dare look at it.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t move.

The whispers around him continued, but he was no longer part of them.

In the sky, thousands of feet above the ground, Ole Gunnar Solskjær sat alone with the weight of the world crushing down on him.

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