The Next Big Thing
Chapter 156: Happenings

Chapter 156: Happenings

The friendly match between Manchester United and Aston Villa had come to an end, and the result was exactly what many critics had been predicting for weeks.

Manchester United’s attack? Brilliant. Their defense? Absolutely shambolic.

The Red Devils had won the match 6-4, a scoreline that perfectly summed up the state of their squad. Every single attacker had contributed—Cristiano Ronaldo bagged a hat-trick, David Jones shone with two goals and an assist, Marcus Rashford added a goal and an assist of his own, and Antony had delivered two assists to his teammates. Even the midfield had looked solid, with Bruno Fernandes and Paul Pogba each registering an assist.

Yet, despite all that attacking brilliance, there was no ignoring the glaring issue at the back. The team had conceded four goals. Not just four goals—four goals to a single player. Ollie Watkins, the English-born Aston Villa striker, had run riot against United’s backline.

Decimated them. Exposed them. Embarrassed them.

Standing at the edge of the technical area, Erik ten Hag remained still, his arms crossed, his face unreadable. But inside, he was thinking—analyzing. He had always been a stubborn man, a firm believer in his tactical principles. But even he had to admit—maybe the critics had a point.

Maybe their defense really was terrible.

His sharp gaze followed the players as they walked toward the tunnel, but his mind was still replaying the defensive disasters he had just witnessed.

His thoughts immediately went to Harry Maguire. The club captain. The so-called leader of the backline. Yet, in this match, he had been a walking disaster. He had been slow to react, dragged out of position too easily, and worst of all, his decision-making had been questionable at best. Watkins had turned him inside out more times than he could count.

Then there was Victor Lindelöf. A decent ball-playing defender, but tonight had been one of his worst performances. He lacked physicality, was slow to close down space, and had allowed Aston Villa’s forwards too much room to operate.

Luke Shaw—a left-back known more for his attacking contributions than his defensive reliability—had been caught high up the pitch too many times, leaving the left flank wide open. He had also been sluggish in tracking back. It was clear that Shaw’s fitness wasn’t at its peak yet.

Alex Telles had similar issues. His deliveries into the box were excellent, but his defensive positioning was questionable. He was too aggressive, too eager to push forward, often leaving gaps behind that Villa had exploited ruthlessly.

And then there was Eric Bailly. On his day, Bailly was an aggressive and fearless defender, but the problem was that his decision-making was too erratic. He was too unpredictable, lunging into tackles when patience was required, and often overcommitting.

Ironically, the one defender Ten Hag couldn’t blame was Aaron Wan-Bissaka. Unlike the rest, he had been solid defensively—his tackles were well-timed, his 1v1 duels were impeccable, and he had done his best to cover for the mess around him. However, Wan-Bissaka’s attacking limitations made him a difficult fit for Ten Hag’s system.

A Crucial Realization: Attack Wins Games, Defense Wins Titles

Ten Hag let out a deep breath and shook his head. He knew football was evolving. It was no longer enough to have just good attackers—if a team wanted to win titles, they needed a strong defense.

He knew it.

Sir Alex Ferguson had known it.

Pep Guardiola had built his dominance at Manchester City on it.

Jurgen Klopp’s Liverpool had reached another level only after signing Virgil van Dijk.

And yet, here he was, standing in front of a team that had just conceded four goals to Ollie Watkins in a friendly.

The Premier League season was about to begin.

The transfer window was closing soon.

He had to move quickly. He needed at least one solid center-back—immediately.

As he stood there in deep thought, he could hear the voices of his assistant coaches behind him.

"Good game, boys!"

"Nice one!"

"Ronaldo, you were on fire out there!"

The players were exchanging high-fives, laughter filling the tunnel. The mood among the attacking players was lighthearted. Why wouldn’t it be? They had done their job. But Ten Hag’s mind was elsewhere. He started moving forward, his steps deliberate as he made his way toward the opposing team.

Among the Premier League coaches he had encountered so far, there was only one he had started to become somewhat acquainted with—Dean Smith.

Smith was standing with his Aston Villa players, patting a few on the back, offering words of encouragement. He wasn’t the type to sulk over a defeat, especially not in a friendly.

Ten Hag approached him with a nod. "Dean," he said.

The Villa boss turned, smiling as he extended a hand. "Erik, good game," Smith said as they shook hands firmly. "Your attack was relentless."

Ten Hag gave a small chuckle. "Thanks. Your striker wasn’t half bad either. Watkins was a nightmare."

Dean Smith grinned. "He’s a real handful, isn’t he? Quick, smart, deadly in front of goal. I’d say he had himself a pretty decent night."

Ten Hag nodded in agreement. "He was outstanding. Your defenders had their moments too—tough job handling our front line."

Smith smirked. "Well, if you think so, how about a trade? I’ll give you my defenders if you hand me that kid winger from the first half."

Ten Hag arched a brow. "Oh really?"

Smith tilted his head. "Come on, be honest, Erik. You were impressed, weren’t you? That boy is a real talent."

For a second, Ten Hag said nothing, just stared at Smith with a neutral expression. Then—

"No, no," he finally said, shaking his head. "I’m joking."

Smith blinked. "Wait... you were actually considering it?"

Ten Hag let out a deep laugh. "Not for a second."

Smith groaned playfully. "Damn it, Erik. You got my hopes up."

They shared a chuckle, exchanging a few more words before parting ways.

As Ten Hag stepped into the Manchester United locker room, he instinctively rubbed his chin. His thoughts were swirling.

This match had confirmed what he already knew.

The attack was elite.

The midfield was solid.

The defense? A disaster waiting to happen.

The season was almost here.

The transfer window was closing.

He needed to make a move. And fast.

David was sprawled out on the treatment table, his legs elevated, while his friend Mohamed worked his magic with the massage. David wasn’t one for getting pampered, but after a tough game, he could always rely on Mohamed to handle his recovery sessions. The older players always got first dibs on the masseuses, leaving the younger guys to improvise.

"Dude, this is terrible," David said, laughing as Mohamed worked his fingers into the muscles. "Get in there, come on! This feels like you’re just tickling me."

Mohamed, who was focused on the task at hand, looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. "I swear, if you keep making me laugh, I’m going to leave you alone," he said, trying to suppress a smile.

David chuckled. "Okay, okay, sorry, just help me out here! I’ve got to get home and start watching the Premier League matches, man."

Mohamed’s eyes rolled as he resumed the massage. "Yeah, I bet you’re dying to get home. But let’s be real for a second—there’s only one match worth watching today, and we both know who’s going to win."

David snorted. "Nah, man, it’s football. You can never say who’s going to win. That’s what makes it so unpredictable, right?"

Mohamed paused for a moment, looking at David like he’d just grown a third arm. "Why’d you say it like you’re not sure about that? You’re the one who always talks like you know exactly what’s gonna happen."

David shrugged, his expression turning a bit sheepish. "Nah, it’s just... sometimes football’s unpredictable, you know? Like... I don’t know, it’s weird."

Mohamed raised an eyebrow, pressing on David’s calves with a bit more force. "Like how?"

David just shook his head with a smirk, trying to deflect the question. "Never mind, man. Forget I said anything."

Mohamed grinned, clearly not buying the act. He continued working on David’s legs, but after a few more minutes, he finally said, "Okay, I’m done."

David sat up and immediately started moving his legs up and down to get the blood flowing again. "Okay, then, thanks, man. You’re a lifesaver."

"No problem," Mohamed said, stretching his fingers. "So, what’s your plan for the rest of the day, huh? You’re probably just gonna chill at home and watch the match too, right?"

David nodded, but then his mind wandered back to what his mom and Zoey had been saying to him lately. They were always telling him he needed to have close friends, to be more social, to not just lock himself in his room with a game.

Alright, David. Bite the bullet. Do it. Just ask him.

He took a deep breath, then turned to Mohamed, who was already looking at him with curiosity.

"Yo, do you want to come over to my place to watch the match?" David asked, a little too quickly. His voice faltered slightly at the end. "I mean, don’t worry, it’s just an offer... I was just asking. No big deal."

Mohamed’s face cracked into a wide grin as he burst out laughing. David sat there, awkwardly shifting, his face flushing.

"What?" David asked, defensive. "What’s so funny?"

Mohamed kept laughing, shaking his head. "What’s all this shyness coming from? This isn’t the David Jones I know!" he teased, laughing even harder. "Wait—are you actually shy about inviting me over? Is this real? David Jones, the shy guy?"

David couldn’t help it. He threw his hands up and did an exaggerated, sarcastic laugh. "Ha, ha! Yeah, real funny."

Mohamed leaned back, still grinning. "Dude, I just rubbed your legs for like half an hour, and the least you could do is invite me to your house afterwards. Come on, that’s the least you could do."

David threw his head back in mock disbelief. "Man, are you serious right now?" he groaned. "You’re gonna hold my legs being massaged against me?"

Mohamed shrugged nonchalantly, his hands still resting on David’s shoulder as he leaned in. "What’s the deal, bro? You tell me I’m your friend, and then you can’t even invite me to your place to watch the match? I’m a key player in your recovery process here."

David rubbed his temples, smiling despite the whole situation. "Alright, alright. You’re right. I’m a terrible host. Get ready for some top-notch snacks when you come over, alright?"

Mohamed looked around as if considering it. "How are we getting there? Is your Indian driver around? Or do you expect me to walk like I’m some kind of peasant?"

David raised an eyebrow. "My Indian driver? You mean Prakesh?" He laughed. "I don’t think he’ll mind taking us."

Mohamed chuckled, shaking his head. "I swear, you’ve got the life. One minute you’re asking me to watch a game with you, the next minute we’re being chauffeured in style. What’s next, are we going to be served champagne and caviar too?"

David gave him a playful shove. "If you’re lucky, I’ll throw in some cheap beer and chips. We’ll keep it humble."

Mohamed laughed, his voice light and full of sarcasm. "Cheap beer and chips? That’s the VIP treatment I’m talking about."

David smiled, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah. Just don’t expect anything fancy. You’re lucky I’m even letting you watch the match in the first place."

"Right," Mohamed teased. "I’m so lucky."

The two of them laughed, the easy banter continuing as they started to get up, preparing to head out.

As they walked towards the exit, David felt a sense of relief. Maybe he wasn’t so bad at this "friendship" thing after all. He thought completely removing a certain gamer girl as his list of friends