The Next Big Thing
Chapter 140: Manchester united 20/21 Squad

Chapter 140: Manchester united 20/21 Squad

"Call me Coach."

The words echoed in David’s mind over and over again, looping like a song he couldn’t turn off. He sat in front of his newly assigned locker in the dressing room, staring at nothing in particular. It wasn’t that the words themselves were bad—far from it. But it was the way they were said. The tone. The weight behind them.

Almost every coach he had met before preferred to be called gaffer or boss. Granted, he had only met two in his short career so far, but still—it was a pattern. It was familiar. And yet, here was Erik ten Hag, a man who didn’t even acknowledge his handshake, shutting down the interaction with three simple words.

David couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

As players began trickling into the dressing room, their chatter filled the once-quiet space. Laughter, greetings, and inside jokes bounced off the walls, creating a lively atmosphere. Some of them nodded at him as they passed, and he returned the gesture to the few faces he recognized from his previous visits. Normally, he would have been the first to strike up a conversation, to blend in seamlessly, but today... today, his mind was elsewhere.

Did I do something wrong?

The question gnawed at him, refusing to be ignored.

Was it because I offered him a handshake?

David was half-Nigerian, and though he had never been to Nigeria himself, his father had made sure he knew a thing or two about the culture. One of the rules drilled into him was that offering a handshake to an elder—especially someone significantly older—could sometimes be seen as a sign of disrespect. Younger people were supposed to show deference, to wait for the elder to extend their hand first.

But that couldn’t be it, right?

That rule didn’t really apply here. This was Europe. The Netherlands, to be precise. Coach—no, Ten Hag—wasn’t Nigerian. He doubted the man would even care about something like that.

So then... what was it?

Why did it feel like he had messed up?

His thoughts spiraled, replaying the moment in his head, dissecting it, searching for anything—anything—that might explain the reaction. But no matter how much he analyzed it, he kept coming up with nothing.

More and more players entered the room, filling up the space with energy, but David still felt detached, like he was stuck in his own little bubble.

The only one who truly snapped him out of his thoughts, even if only for a brief moment, was Juan Mata.

The experienced midfielder walked up to him with a warm smile, clapping him lightly on the shoulder.

"David, how are you, my friend?" Mata asked, his voice kind and reassuring. "How was your break?"

David blinked, taking a second to register the question before finally forcing a small smile.

"Oh, uh... it was good," he replied.

Mata nodded, engaging him in light conversation, asking about his training routine, his time off, and his excitement for the season ahead. It was a welcome distraction, something to anchor him back to the present.

But even as he talked, part of his mind was still stuck on the earlier encounter.

Just a few feet away, beyond the dressing room’s lively atmosphere, inside the coach’s office, Erik ten Hag sat in his chair.

His office had a one-way see-through glass window—allowing him to see the players outside without them seeing him. From there, he observed everything.

Inside that very room, a meeting was taking place. His assistant coaches sat with him, discussing matters concerning the team, the squad, and the upcoming season.

Mike Phelan, the assistant manager who had remained at Manchester United even after Ole Gunnar Solskjær’s departure, stood in the middle of the room, trying to make sense of the situation. He had been entrusted with the dreams and hopes of the former manager, a man who loved this club deeply. And now, with a new era beginning, Mike was determined to uphold that trust. But before he could do anything, he needed answers.

Turning to the other coaching staff, his gaze finally landed on Erik ten Hag, who was seated at his desk, scribbling away on a piece of paper, seemingly unbothered by the growing confusion around him.

"What are all of them doing here?" Mike finally asked, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "And why are we at Old Trafford and not Carrington?"

He wasn’t wrong to question this. Just two days ago, he had received a message out of the blue from his soon-to-be boss, instructing him to report to Old Trafford the following week. No explanation. No context. Just an order.

Mike had tried calling the number that sent the message multiple times, only to receive no response. After a while, he stopped trying, thinking that perhaps the new coach was just busy settling in. When he eventually spoke to the other assistants, he learned they had received the exact same message. Still, he had assumed that this meeting would be just the coaching staff discussing preseason plans, getting on the same page for the season ahead.

Instead, when he arrived, he was met with a sight that threw him completely off balance.

The entire first-team squad was here.

This wasn’t normal. The players didn’t meet at Old Trafford unless it was a match day. Their meetings, training sessions, and preparations all took place at Carrington, the club’s training ground. Only the selected 18-man matchday squad ever gathered at Old Trafford.

Now, standing in the middle of the dressing room, which was clearly too small to accommodate the full squad, Mike could hear the noise—players chatting, laughing, and trying to find space in a room not designed for so many people at once. The confusion wasn’t just his alone; it was written across several faces in the room.

The other coaching staff began murmuring among themselves, agreeing with his concerns. But amid the discussions, two people remained silent—one of whom was the man responsible for all of this: Erik ten Hag.

The Dutchman continued writing, his posture calm, but there was a clear tension in the air around him.

Mike’s confusion was justified, but what he didn’t know was that Ten Hag was already frustrated. The club’s board had refused to let him bring his full coaching staff from Ajax, limiting him to just one assistant—Mitchell van der Gaag. The rest of the staff were inherited from previous regimes. It was a direct contradiction to the promises of full support the club had made to him when he took the job. And now, to make matters worse, they were questioning his decisions?

Without looking up from his paper, Ten Hag finally spoke, his voice firm but calm.

"I called everyone here because I want to pick the matchday squad from them all," he stated simply. "The new season is starting soon, and I want them to stand here—to feel this place. I want them to understand what they are striving for."

Finally, he set his pen down and leaned back in his chair, his sharp gaze meeting those in the room.

"Old Trafford is not just a stadium," he continued, his voice carrying weight. "It is history. It is expectation. It is pressure. But more than anything, it is opportunity—an opportunity to show what they are capable of, to prove that they belong here. A training ground does not do that. Here, in this stadium, under these lights, they will either rise to the occasion or realize this level is beyond them. And if they cannot handle that, they will not play for my team."

Silence followed his words, the previous murmurs now replaced by a heavy sense of understanding.

Mike Phelan, still processing what he had just heard, hesitated before responding.

"Ehm... sir—Coach," he corrected himself, still unsure of the right term to use for the new manager. "We’ve already selected the matchday squad. The players who are supposed to be here already have their names and jerseys on the wall."

He spoke confidently, nodding toward the others as they backed him up. After all, that was how things had always been done. The squad was usually decided in advance, and those selected had already been assigned their places.

But before anyone else could agree, a sharp voice cut through the room.

"What gives you the right to pick?"

The voice belonged to Mitchell van der Gaag, the one man Ten Hag had been allowed to bring with him from Ajax—his most trusted assistant. His tone was firm, unyielding, as he continued.

"It is the coach’s right. And only his," he said coldly. "The matchday squad will be chosen by him, and no one else."

Mitchell was still standing there, his expression unwavering, but before he could say more, Ten Hag raised a hand.

"Mitchell, enough," he said firmly, his voice carrying an authority that silenced any further argument.

Then, shifting his gaze toward Mike and the others, he spoke again, his tone measured but unmistakably clear.

"But he’s right," Ten Hag said. "You all have no right to pick the squad for me. That is my decision, and mine alone."

The room remained silent as his words sank in. He let the weight of them linger for a moment before exhaling lightly and pushing back from his desk.

"But it’s fine," he continued, his voice calm now. "Let’s go talk to the team."

With that, he stood up, straightened his suit, and walked toward the locker room door, his presence commanding. The coaching staff followed behind him, still absorbing the shift in authority.

The moment he stepped inside, the noise that had filled the dressing room just seconds ago vanished, replaced by a thick silence. Every player—whether they were chatting, stretching, or simply finding their space—stopped what they were doing and turned toward the man who had just entered.

For a moment, Ten Hag let his eyes scan the room. He had their attention now.

Then, he spoke.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he began, his voice even yet firm. "For those who don’t know me yet, my name is Erik ten Hag. I am your new manager."

He took a few steps forward, his hands clasped behind his back as he continued.

"I did not come here to waste time. I came here to bring Manchester United back to where it belongs. To restore the standards that this club was built on. But I cannot do that alone."

He let his words settle, watching as some players straightened slightly, already sensing the gravity of his presence.

"This is not just about tactics or formations. It’s about mentality. It’s about commitment. It’s about taking responsibility, every single one of you, for what happens on that pitch. And let me be clear—if you cannot match my expectations, you will not play."

A few players exchanged glances. Others remained still, listening.

"I am here to help you all," he continued. "To make each and every one of you better players. And that includes the youngsters."

At that, his gaze flickered briefly to the side, where David Jones was sitting.

"The young players will be focused on winning and improving—not on media and interviews."

Though he didn’t say a name, his eyes landed on David for just a second longer than necessary before moving on. The implication was clear.

David felt it.

He sat there, absorbing every word, but when that specific line came out, he knew exactly who Ten Hag was referring to. His jaw clenched slightly, but he didn’t react outwardly. Instead, he only shook his head once, thinking to himself: I can’t change that he saw that. But I can change how he sees me.

Meanwhile, Ten Hag continued, his voice building as he addressed the entire squad.

"From this moment on, you earn your place. Nothing is given. I don’t care who you are, what you’ve won, or how long you’ve been here. If you want to play, you prove it to me. And you prove it to your teammates."

Some of the senior players nodded, their respect for him growing. Others, especially those who had assumed they were untouchable, suddenly felt a shift in the room.

"Today," Ten Hag continued, his voice cutting through the air, "I will test all of you in every possible way. Physically. Mentally. Tactically. You will be pushed. And from what I see today, I will decide who makes the squad."

A ripple of shock spread through the room.

Some of the players looked around in confusion. They had assumed that the 18-man squad had already been finalized. After all, their names were on the lockers, their jerseys prepared.

Now, they realized nothing was set in stone.

The fire that had dimmed in the eyes of some of the first-team players reignited instantly. Those who had already been chosen knew they had to fight to keep their place. Those who had been overlooked suddenly saw an opportunity.

The energy in the room shifted.

And amidst it all, David Jones sat still, staring ahead, his mind laser-focused.

He had heard everything Ten Hag said. And he knew—without a doubt—that the coach had directed that little jab about media and interviews at him.

But he didn’t care.

I can’t change that.

What he could change, however, was Ten Hag’s impression of him.

And he knew exactly how to do it.

As the reality of the upcoming test sank into the players, a sharp glint flashed through David’s eyes. His body remained still, but internally, something ignited.

If this were an anime, the aura around him would have become visible, crackling with intensity. A brief flicker of lightning might have flashed across his eyes.

David Jones was ready.

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