The Next Big Thing
Chapter 149: Manchester United 20/21 squad II

Chapter 149: Manchester United 20/21 squad II

David Jones stood still, his heart pounding as he scanned the list posted on the board. Players crowded around it, some leaning in closer, others whispering anxiously. He barely noticed them. His only focus was on that piece of paper, his eyes moving from top to bottom, searching.

His stomach twisted.

There it was—Antony.

David felt a sharp sinking feeling. But he forced himself to keep looking, his heart hammering against his ribs. Then, at the very bottom, second-to-last, his name stood out in bold letters:

DAVID JONES.

For a moment, his breath caught in his throat. He had expected this. He had trained for this. But actually seeing his name on the Manchester United matchday squad list made his chest swell with pride. He wanted to shout, to punch the air, to celebrate—

But before he could, a loud voice cut through the buzz of murmurs.

"WHAT?! I’M NOT THERE?!"

The outburst made David glance to his left.

Anthony Martial stood frozen, his face contorted with disbelief and barely contained rage. His eyes flickered across the list again, desperately scanning for his name as if a second look would change reality.

"How can I not be picked?!" Martial’s voice was rising, drawing the attention of nearby players. "I was the best striker last season! I scored the most goals! Are you playing with me?!"

His breathing was heavy as he moved even closer, his finger running down the list again, more aggressively this time. "Greenwood over me?!" he scoffed, his frustration bubbling over. Then, his eyes landed on something—or rather, someone.

"Who the hell is even David Jones?!"

David, who had been standing off to the side, suddenly felt the weight of Martial’s words settle over him. The words weren’t even meant as an insult—just pure, unfiltered frustration—but they still stung.

He shifted uncomfortably.

David didn’t want any trouble. He wasn’t the type to gloat, nor was he interested in getting into an argument with a senior player. So, instead of reacting, he turned to leave, hoping to slip away unnoticed.

But Martial’s voice came again, sharp and directed straight at him.

"Hey! You—HEY!"

David stopped mid-step, his shoulders tensing before he slowly turned around.

Martial was already walking toward him in hurried, angry strides.

"Hey," David started, but before he could get another word out, Martial bombarded him with questions.

"How did the coach pick you?"

"What did you use?"

"How old even are you?!"

Martial’s tone was pure disbelief, laced with accusation. His expression screamed one thing—he didn’t accept this.

David, standing there, met his gaze, feeling the weight of the moment. A part of him wanted to just walk away, but another part—one that had always been a little too blunt for his own good—spoke instead.

"Hey, man," David said, his tone neutral, almost casual.

Martial’s glare intensified. "What?!" he shot back, practically barking the word.

David exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "I don’t know why you’re asking me all this. Your problem is with the coach. You can go meet him. I don’t know what you think this is going to achieve."

That alone would have been enough. That was where he should have stopped.

But David never knew when to stop.

"But," he continued, "it shouldn’t be that hard to understand why he picked who he picked."

A small pause.

"From the test the other day, you were clearly struggling, and all that talk about last season? That’s exactly what it is—last season. It’s in the past. What matters now is what you can offer, and from the test... well, it didn’t look like much."

Silence.

The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

David hadn’t meant it as an attack, but that didn’t matter. The truth had come out raw and unfiltered.

That was the problem with David—he had no tact. It wasn’t that he was trying to be rude; he simply didn’t know how to soften his words, how to read the room. He always spoke his mind exactly as it was, and that habit had earned him a reputation among his youth squad teammates while he was in Southampton.

Blunt. Arrogant. Unapologetic.

And now, after months of managing to keep that part of himself in check, it had just reared its ugly head again.

Martial’s expression darkened.

His entire body tensed, his jaw clenching so tight it looked like he might crack a tooth. He took a step forward, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

He wanted to say something.

He wanted to rip into David, to remind him who he was, to remind him that he had played for Manchester United for years, had scored goals, had millions of fans who chanted his name.

And who the hell was David Jones?

A nobody.

Still a nobody.

But just as Martial was about to open his mouth, someone else entered the scene.

An Arab player, tall and broad-shouldered, strolled up and casually draped an arm around David’s shoulders.

"Dude! David! Congrats, man!" he said, grinning widely. "I saw your name earlier when I checked the list, but I wanted you to see it yourself. Thought it’d be a nice surprise."

David turned toward him, instantly recognizing the voice. "Mohamed, man. I was freaking out," he admitted, laughing a little. "I kinda knew I’d make it, but still... seeing it there, actually on the list—it’s surreal. I can’t imagine not being included. That would be mental, mate."

Mohamed grinned. "Bro, you earned it."

The two turned together, already walking away, completely dismissing Martial’s presence.

"Guy, where’s the theatre?" David asked, his excitement still buzzing. "I need to go there. Show me."

Mohamed chuckled. "Anything for our Manchester United matchday player," he teased, throwing an exaggerated arm gesture.

David laughed, shaking his head as they continued down the hall.

Behind them, Martial stood frozen, watching their backs disappear.

His fingers twitched, grinding against each other in frustration. His jaw was still tight. His breathing was still heavy.

And his anger?

Still very much burning.

David leaned back against the wall, his phone in his hands as he typed out a message. The excitement from making the squad still buzzed inside him, but he couldn’t ignore the lingering disappointment for some of his teammates—especially Juan Mata.

His fingers hovered over the screen for a second before he finally sent the message.

"Sorry, mate, I didn’t see your name there."

He felt a bit guilty about how blunt that sounded, but what else was he supposed to say? He knew how much it stung to be left out.

A few seconds later, Mata replied.

"It’s fine. I didn’t expect it, honestly."

David exhaled as he read the message. That was classic Mata—calm, composed, taking things in stride. But before David could type back, another message appeared.

"Even glad you told me. Saves me the trouble of even coming over there."

David quickly tapped out his response.

"Yeah, Ighalo had already come in before I could tell him. He was fuming. More at the fact that he has to drive all the way back to Carrington than even not being picked."

He hit send and leaned against the chair, waiting for a reply. Mata’s response came almost instantly.

"I can get why he would be. It’s all bullshit. I don’t know why they make us go all the way there if we aren’t even picked. And putting it on a damn wall like it’s some school exam result? It’s archaic. He needs to do better. This is just a pathetic display of power—rubbish if you ask me."

David stared at the message for a moment, his thumb hovering over the keyboard.

He agreed. He just didn’t know how to say it.

So, he settled for a simple:

"Yeah, it’s insane."

Another message popped up almost immediately.

"Well, thanks for the heads-up, David. And also, massive congrats on making the squad. You really deserve it. At least he wasn’t blind to your worth."

A small smile tugged at David’s lips as he read it. Mata was one of the real ones.

"Thanks, man. And good luck at training too. Later."

With that, he locked his phone and slid it into his pocket, leaning back in his chair.

The Meeting Room

As David looked around, he took in his surroundings. The room was huge, almost like a cinema hall. A massive screen stretched across the front wall, the kind you’d expect to see in a luxury home theater. Players were scattered throughout, sitting in the plush, stadium-style seats. Some were engaged in quiet conversations, while others were focused on their phones, lost in their own worlds.

At the very front, Cristiano Ronaldo sat, his posture relaxed, scrolling through his phone. His expression was unreadable, but his mere presence carried an undeniable weight. Even when he wasn’t speaking, he dominated the room.

To his left, Bruno Fernandes leaned forward, engaged in a hushed conversation with Paul Pogba, the two of them occasionally glancing toward the front as if waiting for something to start. Pogba, ever the animated one, gestured with his hands as he spoke.

Just behind them, Marcus Rashford and Mason Greenwood sat together, heads close as they exchanged words. Rashford had his arms crossed, nodding along to whatever Greenwood was saying. They both looked relaxed, but there was an edge of focus beneath it—this was Manchester United, after all.

Over to the right, Harry Maguire and Victor Lindelöf sat near each other, both defenders looking serious, their eyes occasionally flicking toward the screen. Aaron Wan-Bissaka sat a row behind them, quiet, scrolling on his phone, while Luke Shaw and Alex Telles were engaged in a quiet discussion a few seats away.

Toward the middle of the room, David De Gea and Dean Henderson were seated apart, each in their own world. De Gea, ever the seasoned veteran, looked unbothered, while Henderson, younger and eager, sat with his arms folded, an intense look on his face.

Further back, Scott McTominay, Fred, and Donny van de Beek sat together, all three seeming more engaged in conversation than anything else. Fred was the most animated, gesturing as he spoke, while McTominay nodded along.

Then, of course, there was Antony, the new Brazilian signing. He sat alone, earbuds in, scrolling through his phone, clearly indifferent to the chatter around him.

And finally, at the very back, David Jones himself.

He sat comfortably, a big smile on his face, his eyes scanning the room. It was surreal. He was sitting among world-class players, part of Manchester United’s matchday squad. It wasn’t just a dream anymore—it was real.

His fingers drummed against the armrest, the excitement still simmering beneath the surface.

Then, the door swung open.

Silence fell almost instantly as Erik ten Hag and Mike Phelan stepped inside.

The Dutch manager strode to the front of the room with an air of quiet authority, his sharp gaze scanning the players. Behind him, Phelan, ever the veteran coach, walked with an easy familiarity. His balding head reflected the bright lights of the room, making it impossible to ignore him.

David, sitting high up in the back row, had a clear view of everything.

Ten Hag wasted no time. His voice was calm but firm, carrying through the room.

"Okay, team, we are about to discuss our tactics going into the new season."

David leaned forward.

His heart pounded.

He was here. He was part of this.

A pen and notebook sat beside him, waiting.

And he was ready.

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