The Next Big Thing
Chapter 143: Match Squad Selection III

Chapter 143: Match Squad Selection III

The day had been long.

The sprinting race was just the beginning—merely the first challenge in what turned out to be six grueling hours of relentless testing.

What followed was a brutal sequence designed to push them to their limits.

After the race, they were thrown into an endurance test—lap after lap around the field, their legs growing heavier with each passing second, lungs burning as they gasped for breath.

Then came the agility drills. Cones were set up, and they had to weave through them at top speed, their footwork constantly tested under the watchful eyes of the coaches.

Next, balance and coordination assessments. Jumping, pivoting, landing on one foot—ensuring they had the control and stability needed to withstand pressure on the pitch.

That was only the warm-up.

Ball control tests followed—fast-moving drills where they had to keep the ball under control while being chased by an assistant coach, forced to turn sharply, maneuver in tight spaces, and keep possession under immense pressure.

Then came the drill training, a series of rapid, unforgiving exercises designed to sharpen their reflexes and decision-making. First-touch drills. One-touch passing at high speed. Reaction drills where they had to respond instantly to unpredictable movements from their training partners.

After that, the shooting assessment. They were given a set number of chances to score from different positions—inside the box, outside the box, volleys, headers. The goalkeepers were put to the test as well, and every attempt felt like a battle, with exhaustion making it harder to hit clean strikes.

Then there was the defensive testing. One-on-one duels. Tackling accuracy. Marking awareness. Knowing when to press aggressively and when to hold back. Players were rotated between offensive and defensive positions, forcing even attackers to understand the art of defending.

Then, another endurance test.

Then reaction drills.

Then passing accuracy.

Then tactical awareness testing—where the coaching staff would suddenly shout commands and force players to make split-second decisions on positioning and movement.

It was relentless. And it was exhausting.

Breaks were given, but they felt far too short. The moment David felt a sliver of relief, another round of testing was thrown at them.

By the end of it all, David was spent.

His legs felt like dead weight, his muscles ached with every movement, and his breathing was heavy. His entire body screamed for rest.

When they finally made it back to the locker room, he couldn’t even muster the energy to sit on the bench. Instead, he dropped straight onto the floor, legs stretched out, his drenched training kit sticking to his skin. Sweat poured down his face, dripping onto the ground beneath him.

Beside him, Paul Pogba was in no better shape. The Frenchman sat slouched, muttering quietly to himself in French, his chest rising and falling heavily.

David took a moment to glance around.

It was the same for almost everyone. Players were sprawled out across the room, heads resting against lockers, some barely able to move their arms to wipe the sweat from their faces.

Almost everyone.

Because one player was still standing.

Cristiano Ronaldo.

David stared at him, unable to comprehend how it was even possible.

Ronaldo wasn’t just standing—he was casually drinking from a water bottle, his expression calm, almost normal.

David blinked in disbelief.

Is this guy a machine or what?

He knew what they had just gone through. Six hours of pure hell. And yet, while everyone else looked like they had been run over by a truck, Ronaldo was standing there like it was just another regular day at training.

David had nearly collapsed three hours in. He had pushed himself further than he thought possible, battling through exhaustion, refusing to show weakness.

But this?

Ronaldo was built differently.

Before David could think about it any further, movement at the door caught his attention.

Someone entered.

David barely raised his head, his body still heavy with exhaustion.

It was Mike Phelan.

The assistant coach walked in, his gaze sweeping over the players. His expression remained neutral, but the slight nod of approval gave away that he was impressed.

"You lot did excellent today," he said, his voice steady. "The results will be posted shortly."

A groan of exhaustion and mild curiosity rippled through the room, but it was Marcus Rashford who spoke up first.

"What do you mean posted?"

Mike Phelan let out a small sigh, as if he had anticipated the question.

"Yeah... it seems the new coach likes to post the list of players who make his squad," he explained. "So starting tomorrow, before you enter the locker room, a paper will be posted on the door. It’ll have the names of those who are selected."

The room went silent.

Phelan continued.

"If your name isn’t on that list, report to Carrington for further training. The 18 players selected will head to the theater for a tactical session where we’ll discuss our approach for the upcoming season and games."

His voice trailed off, but the effect of his words had already taken hold.

The room erupted.

Despite being utterly exhausted, the players didn’t let that show as they immediately erupted into chatter.

"What’s that? Are we kids?" one of them scoffed.

"Yeah, does he think we’re in some kind of High School Musical or what?" another added, shaking his head.

"Seriously, what the fuck is posting it on the wall like that?" someone else grumbled, his frustration cutting through the tired murmurs.

As complaints filled the locker room, a firm but calm voice suddenly cut through the noise.

"Guys, guys, guys—just relax."

The tone commanded attention, and just like that, everyone turned toward the source.

Cristiano Ronaldo.

He stood there, looking as unfazed as ever, as if the last six hours of grueling training had been nothing but a warm-up session for him. The exhaustion that had settled over the room moments ago seemed to pause as the players gave him their full attention.

"Let’s all just calm down," Ronaldo continued, his voice steady. "I’m sure the gaffer has his reasons."

Then, with that signature glint in his eye, he smirked and added, "Maybe he just wants to give some of you a little suspense—y’know, like waiting for exam results after knowing you failed the test."

The locker room erupted into laughter, a much-needed break from the tension. Even those who had been the most annoyed couldn’t help but grin, shaking their heads.

"So let’s all just relax, ehn?" Ronaldo added, clapping his hands together with an energy that made it seem like he hadn’t just gone through the same brutal training as everyone else. "Let’s go, Red Devils!"

The enthusiasm in his voice was almost contagious.

Almost.

Some of the players sighed, nodding their heads reluctantly. Their exhaustion still weighed heavy on them, but at least the mood had shifted.

Mike Phelan, watching the scene unfold, gave a small nod of approval before speaking.

"Thank you, Cristiano," he said.

Ronaldo simply shrugged. "No problem."

Mike then took a moment to glance around the locker room, surveying some of the best athletes in the world—collapsed on benches, slumped against lockers, or, like David, straight-up lying on the floor. He let out a slight chuckle before continuing.

"That’ll be all. The masseuses are in the massage room—you lot should probably get a good rub before heading out. Don’t worry, they’ve all been tested already," he assured them, anticipating some of their concerns. "The cold bath room is unavailable right now, so you’ll have to take turns with the massage tables since there are only three available."

There were a few grumbles, but most of the players were too tired to argue.

Mike gave a final nod. "Alright then, good job out there today. See you all tomorrow."

As he turned to leave, the room collectively responded with a weary, "Bye, coach."

The moment Mike was gone, a few players began to stir.

Bruno Fernandes, along with some others, stretched as they got up. He turned toward Ronaldo.

"Ronaldo, you coming with us to get rubbed down?"

Ronaldo shook his head. "Nah, you all go ahead. I have my own guy at home—I’m fine, thanks."

With that, they left, leaving David still sitting motionless on the floor.

Not that he had much of a choice.

He hadn’t moved since dropping to the ground, and at this point, it felt like his body had fused with the floor. His limbs refused to cooperate, his muscles ached in places he didn’t even know could ache, and even lifting his head felt like a chore.

He was that weak.

As more and more players began trickling out of the room, two familiar figures approached him.

Odion Ighalo and Juan Mata.

"Kid, let’s go to the massage room before it gets too crowded," Mata said, nudging him lightly with his foot.

David barely turned his head to look at them. He wanted to move—he really did—but the idea of standing up felt impossible.

"You guys go ahead, don’t worry about me," he muttered. "I’ll come later. I just want to sit here and relax for a bit."

Ighalo and Mata exchanged glances, then shrugged. They were exhausted too, and standing around trying to convince him wasn’t something either of them had the energy for.

"Alright, kid," Ighalo said. "Just don’t forget to go. A massage really helps after a session like this."

David simply nodded in response, his eyes already half-closed.

With that, they left, joining the rest of the players heading to the massage room.

More and more people cleared out, the locker room growing quieter by the second.

David remained where he was.

Not moving.

Not talking.

Just existing in his exhaustion.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally forced himself to move. Slowly, he dragged his arm across the floor, reaching for his phone. His fingers felt sluggish, but he managed to unlock it and send a message to Prakesh.

"Start coming to pick me up."

With that done, he let out a deep sigh.

Then, gritting his teeth, he forced his body to respond.

Pushing through the fatigue, he willed himself to stand.

As David pushed himself upright, his legs trembled beneath him, threatening to give out. It felt like he was standing on jelly, his entire body protesting the mere act of movement. For a moment, he genuinely believed he was going to fall flat on his face, but he steadied himself, took a deep breath, and forced his way out of the locker room.

Stepping into the corridor, he glanced around, his vision slightly hazy from exhaustion.

That’s when he spotted Mohamed, the kit boy he had met earlier in the day, moving hurriedly with his arms full of equipment.

David called out, his voice a little rough from fatigue. "Mohamed! Hey!"

The young kit boy, though clearly busy, glanced up at the sound of his name and made his way over. As he got closer, his expression quickly changed.

"Hey man, how are you—" Mohamed started, but then paused, looking David up and down. His eyes widened slightly before he let out a low whistle. "Wow. Damn. You look horrible."

David let out a tired chuckle. "I feel just as bad, bro."

Mohamed smirked. "Well, considering what you guys just went through, I’m not surprised. But hey, at least you were great out there! I didn’t expect you to be that good, man. For sure, you’ll get selected—you were one of the best today," he said excitedly.

David, despite his exhaustion, couldn’t help but grin. He reached up, touching his nose in a small, self-satisfied gesture before replying, "Well... that’s to be expected, innit?"

Mohamed rolled his eyes but chuckled. "Okay then, Mr. Confident. I gotta get back, though. My supervisor needs all this stuff back in the storeroom." He turned around, already preparing to leave. "Bye!"

But before he could take more than a step, David grabbed his arm, stopping him.

"Wait, man. I called you over, and I haven’t even asked what I wanted to ask," David said, shaking his head.

Mohamed blinked, then scratched the back of his head. "Oh yeah, my bad. What do you need?"

David sighed, realizing how ridiculous it was that he still didn’t know his way around. "I’m looking for the massage room. Do you know where it is?"

Mohamed nodded. "Oh, yeah. Just pass that hallway, take a left, then—" he suddenly switched into an overly complicated set of directions. "Go straight, take the second right, walk four steps, look for the sign with the red stripe, then take another left, pass the janitor’s closet, and if you hit the laundry room, you’ve gone too far, so double back and—"

David stared at him, deadpan.

"You have to be joking with me right now," he said flatly. "Dude, talk like a normal person."

Mohamed smirked. "Man, all you athletes are so high-maintenance. Can’t even handle simple directions." Then, with a shrug, he said, "The room after the clinic. That’s it."

David exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. "Why the fuck didn’t you just say that in the first place?"

Mohamed laughed, already turning away. "Yeah, yeah. Later, dude—I gotta go."

"Okay, man, thanks," David called after him.

Mohamed just threw a hand up in a lazy wave as he walked off.

With no other choice, David forced himself forward, his legs still protesting every step. Step after step, he pushed through, navigating his way toward the massage room. By the time he got there, he was greeted by a sight that made his already low energy sink even further—

A long line of players waiting their turn.

Letting out a quiet groan, he tapped the shoulder of the player directly in front of him. The man turned, revealing himself to be Eric Bailly.

"Ehm... is it that you all are waiting for a turn?" David asked, still hoping he had misunderstood the situation.

Bailly let out a dramatic groan. "Yeah, man. We each get ten minutes with a masseuse." He rolled his shoulders with a wince. "And we all need more than ten. My calves are killing me. That damn coach..."

David just nodded, his head feeling heavier by the second. He glanced around at the others in line, most of whom looked just as destroyed as he felt.

Deciding to conserve what little strength he had, he leaned against the wall, resting his forehead against the cool surface. But that wasn’t enough. His knees gave out, and he slid down, sitting on the floor, too weak to care how he looked.

As he waited, his phone dinged in his pocket.

Summoning what little energy he had left, he fished it out and saw a message from Prakesh.

"I’m outside."

Just as he finished reading it, a loud commotion erupted from the line.

"Hey, Paul, you just went! You can’t go again! Get out!" someone shouted.

David sighed.

He was done.

His exhaustion had officially won.

Making a split-second decision, he forced himself up, his body screaming in protest. Without a word, he turned and walked away, pushing past the players still waiting for their turn.

’I’m tired,’ he thought simply.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally made it outside. His eyes immediately landed on Prakesh’s cab, parked by the curb. He barely made it to the door before collapsing into the back seat, his body sinking into the cushion as he muttered, "Let’s go."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

Prakesh, who had been watching him walk over, his steps sluggish and unsteady, frowned as he pulled onto the road. "David, are you okay? What happened?"

David didn’t even have the strength to explain. He simply lifted a weak hand and gave a thumbs-up.

Prakesh let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "You footballers always pushing too hard," he muttered. Then, as they neared David’s apartment, he added, "Make sure you rest. And if you can, try soaking your feet in warm water with turmeric and ginger. Back home, in my village, that’s what we do for exhaustion—it works, trust me."

David, barely keeping his eyes open, gave a slow nod. "Thanks, man," he murmured weakly.

Once they reached his apartment, he mustered every last ounce of strength to push the car door open. Stumbling out, he dragged himself toward the door. He reached into the flower pot, retrieving the spare key he had hidden there earlier, and unlocked the door.

The moment he stepped inside, he didn’t even bother with his bedroom. He made a beeline for the bean bag in the living room, collapsing onto it with a heavy sigh.

Finally, finally, sleep was within reach.

But before he could drift off, his phone rang.

He groaned.

Lifting his arm with all the grace of a deadweight, he squinted at the screen.

Zoey.

Suppressing another groan, he answered. "Hey, Zoey..."

Immediately, her voice came through, light and full of energy. "Hey! How are you? You didn’t text or call all day! I know you had training, but you still should’ve texted."

David exhaled. "Yeah... I’m sorry." His voice was so low, it was barely audible.

Zoey, either not noticing or choosing to ignore it, continued. "So, how was training? Was it good? Did you impress your coach?"

David gave a half-hearted hum in response. "Hmm... hmm..."

"That’s great! Oh, and did you see Ronaldo? How was it meeting him? Did you—"

David never heard the rest.

Before she could finish her sentence, he had already fallen asleep, phone still in his hand.

Meanwhile, back at the stadium, in a secluded meeting room, a group of men sat around a table.

The voice of the most talked-about man among the Manchester United players broke the silence.

"Okay," the man said, his tone decisive. "Let’s pick the team now."