The Next Big Thing
Chapter 160: Sancho Vs David

Chapter 160: Sancho Vs David

Jordan Sancho, the wonderkid, the future of world football, was at the pinnacle of his career. At just 20 years old, he had just finished a scorching season with Borussia Dortmund, and despite a recent injury, he was in the prime of his life. This summer, his name was on everyone’s lips as he made the huge move from Dortmund to Manchester United.

The transfer was massive—120 million euros—making him not only the highest-paid Premier League player but the fourth most expensive transfer in football history. The world was watching. He was the future of the sport, a player touted as the next big thing, only behind Kylian Mbappé in terms of potential. He had made it, the young star rising to the top, moving to one of the biggest clubs in the world, joining the most prestigious league in football. The world was at his feet.

But right now, standing in a sterile hospital hallway, none of that mattered.

The young man in front of him, barely looking 18, was shouting at him, as if Jordan’s presence was the cause of all the chaos. It was absurd. Jordan had apologized already, not that he felt he was at fault—he didn’t think he was responsible for the accident. Sure, they were driving in the wrong lane, but his was the one who swerved at the last second, trying to avoid the crash, trying to save their lives. He had even taken them to the hospital! And now here was this kid, looking at him with hatred in his eyes, like he was the one who had caused all of this.

What the hell is this kid’s problem? Jordan thought, his blood starting to boil.

He had been calm, trying to reason with the boy, but it was clear that this was going nowhere. The kid, David, knew who he was. The same David who had seen him in the car, recognized his face, probably Googled him by now—Jordan wasn’t sure. But the way he was acting now, shouting like a madman, made Jordan lose any shred of pity he might have had for him.

The anger was building in Jordan’s chest. He wasn’t about to let some kid talk to him like that, not when he’d been doing his best to calm the situation. His patience wore thin as he glared at David, his face scrunching into a tight frown.

"You brat," Jordan hissed, his voice low, threatening.

David stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide, his anger faltering for a moment as he processed the words.

Sancho saw the reaction, and it made him smirk, knowing he’d gotten through to the kid. But it didn’t last.

"You’ve just been shouting for a while now," Jordan continued, his voice laced with venom. "While I’ve been calm, trying to talk to you, trying to apologize for something I wasn’t even wrong about! You’re in my lane! You’re the ones who nearly crashed into me and you have the nerve to act like I’m the one who’s to blame? What the hell do you want me to do? Drive you to the moon?"

Jordan’s words were coming faster, sharper, filled with irritation. He was furious now—not just at the situation, but at the sheer audacity of David’s behavior. It wasn’t like he had asked for any of this. All he wanted was to avoid the accident, get them to safety. But the kid? He was throwing a tantrum like a child.

"You’re lucky I even took you to the damn hospital! I was the one who stopped my car, I was the one who made sure you got here. But you? All you’ve done is shout at me like I’m the one who caused all of this!" Jordan spat, his eyes narrowing, his anger bubbling over.

David stood there, frozen, staring at him. He had no words, not knowing how to respond to the sheer hostility that now radiated from the footballer. Jordan’s fists were clenched, his body taut with frustration, ready to lash out if David said one more thing. But as the moment stretched on, David just stood there, silently seething, his eyes flicking around the hospital, unsure of what to do next.

Jordan’s gaze flickered around too, noticing that they had attracted a crowd. People were starting to stare, whispering, some shaking their heads, others unsure of what to make of the situation. The last thing he needed was for this to escalate further in front of everyone.

Shit.

He muttered under his breath, realizing the tension had already reached a boiling point. This was becoming a spectacle he didn’t want, especially with cameras and social media buzzing about. Without another word, Jordan threw his jacket over his face, pulling it low to cover his head as he tried to back away, looking like he wanted to disappear.

But David wasn’t done. Not yet.

Yes, he had stood still earlier, stunned by Sancho’s outburst, seemingly frozen mid-advance. But it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t reason. Oh no—David’s pause had nothing to do with rationality or intimidation.

It was disbelief.

In his mind, he hadn’t done anything wrong. He wasn’t the one speeding down the wrong lane in a car worth more than most people’s homes. He wasn’t the one who nearly killed someone and thought tossing out an apology like a crumpled receipt was enough. He was the victim, dammit.

So seeing Sancho—Jordan fucking Sancho—cursing him out, talking like he was the one being wronged? It shattered David’s grasp of reality.

To him, it was like watching the villain demand a thank-you for causing the crash.

His anger didn’t rise in flames. It detonated.

As Sancho turned to leave, hood up, trying to blend into the background like he wasn’t the main character in this disaster, David’s lips curled.

He wasn’t about to let this slide.

"*Dude, the fuck—*where are you going?" David’s voice ripped through the air, louder than before, drawing the attention of even those who had tried to look away. "Get the fuck back here!"

His hand shot forward, grabbing Sancho by the shoulder, yanking him backward with force.

Sancho stumbled slightly, turning, his face twisted in disbelief. "This guy..." he muttered under his breath, shaking his head in frustration as he straightened up.

The confrontation was now impossible to ignore. Nurses had paused. A few patients craned their necks. Phones were already out—blinking camera lights, the soft rustle of recording apps being opened.

Sancho noticed.

He tried to keep his voice low, steady. "Dude, people are watching," he said, his eyes flicking around, voice tight with a mixture of caution and desperation. "Let’s settle this, alright? Calm down."

But David wasn’t calming down.

"Settle what?" he barked, voice raw with fury. "Who the fuck said I want your money, huh? You think this is about some hush cash? Fuck off, man!"

He shoved Sancho back—not hard, but enough to make a point. Sancho, startled, pushed his arm away.

"Back off, bro," Sancho hissed, trying to turn again, but David grabbed him, dragging him by the sleeve.

The cameras caught it all.

Sancho, trying to twist free. David, yanking him back. Their voices now fully raised.

"Let go of me!"

"You gonna walk away like that? After almost killing us?"

"I didn’t fucking hit you, it was your lane!"

"YOU SWERVED INTO US, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

Shoving. Dragging. Sancho pushing David’s hand off his hoodie. David clawing him back again.

The hallway erupted in chaos.

People gasped. Phones shook as spectators tried to keep their videos steady. One nurse called for security. Another ran to fetch someone in charge.

Sancho was trying to restrain himself, visibly clenching his jaw, his eyes darting from phone to phone like a trapped animal realizing the cage door had already closed.

"Get the fuck off me!" Sancho shouted, now fully livid. He shoved David’s hand again, harder this time, sending him back a step.

But David came right back, voice ragged, his hand latching again to Sancho’s jacket. "You fucking coward, you gonna run? You’re not leaving till you hear me out, bitch!"

They were tangled in the middle of the corridor now, a storm of movement. Sancho’s chest was heaving, his back against the wall of gawking eyes. He glanced again at the phones, the nurses whispering. He felt the red-hot pressure building—his return to England had barely begun and this?

This was not how the narrative was supposed to go.

Fuck, I just got back...

He was thinking of headlines. Of tabloids. Of Manchester United. Of sponsors. Of his mother watching this.

And that pressure exploded.

He shoved David away hard, sending him stumbling. But David came back—again. The fury on his face was no longer just rage; it was something deeper, something unhinged. He was shouting still, spitting curses, grabbing Sancho’s arm again.

"You think you can just fucking walk away?! After everything? Fuck you, man—fuck you!"

Something snapped in Sancho. Completely.

His right hand flew up.

Faster than thought, than reason—than regret.

CRACK.

His fist connected with David’s face. Clean. Sharp. Brutal.

The hallway erupted into screams.

David staggered back, almost slipping, catching himself against the wall. His eyes were wide, blinking, trying to process what had just happened. The impact had left a red mark swelling beneath his eye. He touched his cheek and stared down at the blood on his fingertips—a smear, bright and hot.

And then, inexplicably, he smiled.

A slow, dangerous curl of his lips. "Oh, so it’s like that, yeah?" he said, voice low, mocking, touched with madness.

He stepped forward again, not even noticing Sancho’s stunned expression. The footballer’s hands were now up, defensive.

"Wait, wait..." Sancho stammered, his voice barely audible over the murmurs and gasps.

Then a voice—loud, commanding, unmistakably authoritative—cut through the noise like a blade.

"Are you the individuals involved in a car accident?"

Both Sancho and David turned sharply toward the voice.

And there they were.

Two uniformed police officers stood just feet away, hands resting on their belts, one already reaching for a notepad.

The crowd went silent.

And in perfect, stunned unison, the same word slipped out of both David and Sancho’s mouths—quiet, breathless, and laced with dread.

"Shit."

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