The Next Big Thing
Chapter 120: Coach’s farewell II

Chapter 120: Coach’s farewell II

Ole didn’t stop. He didn’t let himself feel.

He stormed down the hallways, his pace unrelenting, his mind burning with fury. He wasn’t going to cry, he wasn’t going to moan about it—no. He needed to keep moving.

He reached the locker room, pushing the door open without hesitation.

The room fell silent.

Every player inside, some mid-conversation, some in the middle of changing, froze. Their movements halted, their gazes locked onto him. Tension filled the air instantly, thick and suffocating.

Ole didn’t say a word.

He just walked past them, his boots echoing on the floor, and entered the coaching room.

With a heavy exhale, he shut the door behind him.

he first went to sit on his desk

Ole sat heavily in his chair, his fingers brushing against the desk—the very same desk where he had spent hours strategizing, planning, dreaming of Manchester United’s return to glory. Now, it felt foreign. The chair, the walls, even the air in the room—none of it felt like his anymore.

His eyes drifted around, his mind pulling him back into memories.

Years ago, as a young substitute player, he had sat across from this very desk, looking up at his gaffer—Sir Alex Ferguson. He could still see it so clearly: the old Scotsman leaning forward, fire in his eyes as he spoke, imparting wisdom, scolding when needed, but always with belief.

"You’ll get your moment, son. Just be ready when it comes."

He had been.

And then, much later, he had been the one behind the desk. The pride he felt when he first sat here as Manchester United’s gaffer—it was indescribable. The first time he called Sir Alex to tell him, he hadn’t even managed to get past the words "I got the job" before the old man gruffly said, "We’re going for a drink."

That night, they had sat in a quiet bar, the two of them talking football, tactics, memories—Ole had felt like he had finally made it. The legendary Sir Alex Ferguson, his gaffer, sharing drinks with him not as a player, but as a fellow Manchester United manager.

The night had been perfect—until Sir Alex’s wife had stormed in, dragging him away by the arm while muttering about him "being too damn old to still be out drinking like a madman." Ole had laughed so hard he nearly choked on his beer.

Now, sitting in this chair, he felt that weight again. The responsibility, the privilege, the honor of leading this club. Except now, he was no longer the one leading.

With a sad smile, he looked around.

He reached for the picture frames on his desk—one by one, he began packing them. His squad, both past and present. His wife and kids. Every little thing he had brought to make this office his own.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Enter," he called.

The door creaked open, and Mike Phelan stepped inside. His assistant coach. His right-hand man.

For a long moment, Mike didn’t say anything. He just stood there, watching as Ole quietly packed away his memories.

Then, finally, his voice broke the silence.

"Me and the rest of the coaching staff are ready to walk," he said firmly. "Wherever you go, we go."

Ole paused, his fingers tightening around a picture frame.

"You’ll find another club, Ole," Mike continued. "A club that—"

"No."

Mike blinked. "Pardon?"

Ole turned to face him, his expression firm. "No. Don’t quit."

Mike frowned. "What? But—"

"You guys need to stay," Ole interrupted. "You must help the new coach. Help him integrate, make sure he knows the players’ strengths and weaknesses."

Mike opened his mouth to argue, but Ole wasn’t done.

"Next season—"

The words choked in his throat.

Next season.

He had already envisioned it. He had planned everything—tactics, transfers, pre-season, everything. But now, next season wasn’t his.

Swallowing hard, he steadied himself.

"Next season needs to be better," he said finally. "You need to make sure it is better. And David..." His voice grew even more serious. "You need to make sure they work on him. He’s a player that can define a club."

Mike hesitated, his loyalty warring with reason. "No, Ole. We should follow you."

Ole shook his head. "No," he said again, resolute. "You’re needed here."

Mike didn’t speak. He just stared at Ole, searching his face, trying to find an argument strong enough to make him change his mind. But there was none.

"Come on," Ole said after a moment. "Let’s go talk to the boys."

The locker room was still tense when Ole stepped out. The moment the players saw him, the questions started flying.

"Gaffer, is it true?"

"Gaffer, we’re sorry, man. Those board members are so dumb."

"How could they do this to you?"

"Okay, that’s enough," Ole interrupted, raising a hand. The room fell silent.

He looked at them—his players. His team.

"I didn’t come out here to talk about the board," he said. His voice was steady, but there was emotion beneath it. "I just wanted to say... it was an honor being your coach."

The words hung in the air. Some players looked down. Others swallowed hard.

"You lot," Ole continued, shaking his head, "are a group of incredibly talented players."

For a moment, they brightened at the compliment. Then Ole smirked.

"But you all still have a lot of work to do."

Some groans filled the room, but he pressed on.

"Pogba, you need to work on your fitness."

Pogba huffed. "Ah, come on, coach—"

"Rashford, you—your decision-making needs work."

Rashford grinned sheepishly.

"James, you need to learn when to run and when to release the ball. You can’t just sprint down the wing every time."

Before James could protest, Pogba cut in with a smirk. "That’s if the next coach doesn’t sell him first."

The room erupted in laughter. Even Ole chuckled, shaking his head.

For the next hour, they just talked. They reminisced, they joked, they laughed. There was no board, no press, no outside noise. Just a group of professional footballers and their now-former coach, sharing one last moment together.

When Ole finally stood up to leave, there was no grand farewell speech. No theatrics. Just a nod, a clap on the shoulder here and there, and a final look around at the players he had given everything for.

As he stepped out of the locker room for the last time, he could hear them still talking, still laughing inside.

And for the first time since he got on that plane from Germany, Ole smiled.

This wasn’t how he had wanted it to end.

But at least, for one last night, he had been their gaffer.

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