The Next Big Thing
Chapter 166: Owner Gets Angry

Chapter 166: Owner Gets Angry

"...Tell me who caused this. Now."

The voice thundered out of the phone’s speaker with such anger and force it sent a chill down every spine in the boardroom. Everyone froze. No one dared breathe. Some had their mouths ajar, while others instinctively covered them with their hands as though doing so might shield them from the wrath echoing through the sleek walls. The unmistakable fury of Joel Glazer—the owner of Manchester United—was not something you just brushed off.

It wasn’t just anger. It was pure, undiluted rage. The kind that crackled like static and sent imaginary lightning bolts through the air.

In the tense silence that followed, one voice managed to break through—a disbelieving murmur that sounded like it was half-question, half-nervous laughter.

"No way did he really say that," Mohamed whispered, wide-eyed. He looked around as if he was at the room full of stunned executives and players, as if searching for confirmation that this was real life and not some stress-induced hallucination.

—

Hours later, and far away from the sterile air-conditioned war zone that had become the boardroom, David Jones strolled into a private hospital room, as calm and unbothered as ever. Not a scratch on him. Not a bruise. Just his usual swagger and a faint smell of whatever ridiculously expensive cologne he’d spritzed on. He looked like someone straight out of a heroic football manga—flawless, smirking, and holding court like the chaos of earlier had only added to his legend.

He was in his element.

His best friend, Mohamed, lay propped up on the bed opposite. The kit boy at Manchester United and David’s now partner-in-crime, Mo had a thick bandage wrapped around his forehead, his curly hair sticking out in odd directions, giving him the look of someone who’d headbutted a brick wall and won on points. Pale, but recovering. He’d been drifting in and out of sleep until David’s dramatic arrival snapped him right back into reality.

Seated nearby, in a plastic hospital chair that squeaked every time he shifted, was Prakesh—his loyal, ever-patient Indian driver, who’d taken the brunt of the day’s madness. His leg was in a brace, and there was a split lip that looked like it belonged in a boxing match recap. Prakesh, who usually freaked out over mild traffic delays, had nearly gone feral when his precious car was almost towed during the chaos. It had taken every ounce of David’s charm—and a frantic call to the club’s management to show the car in their custody—to stop him from challenging the hospital security to a duel.

David was now in full flow, arms swinging like a street performer retelling a crime scene. "So then, the phone rings—BAM—and I know, from the moment that voice comes through, that it’s HIM. Big boss. Joel freaking Glazer. And he’s not in a good mood. I’m talking full-on volcano mode."

"And what did you say?" Prakesh asked, eyes wide, leaning forward like a kid waiting for the climax of a horror story, wincing slightly from the movement.

David gave him a sly grin and puffed out his chest like a rooster in designer boots. "You guys really wanna know? You sure you’re ready?"

"Obviously!" Mohamed croaked from the bed, adjusting his pillow and trying not to laugh too hard because it made his head throb.

David tilted his chin up, his voice deepening as he slipped into his best mock-serious tone. "Do I look like someone who hides in the shadows? Come on. I took the phone like a man, yeah? And I go, ’It’s me. David Jones. Number 19 of your team.’ Just like that. Cool. Calm. Like I was ordering pizza."

Mohamed’s jaw dropped. "No way you did that. There’s just no way."

David raised both hands like he was on trial. "I swear on my boots, bro. On my shin pads. On the Trophies of Sir Alex Ferguson. I told him it was all a misunderstanding—said it was just a bit of light damage, a harmless scuffle, the kind of thing that happens when you’ve got passionate youth in the building."

Prakesh let out a whistle, nodding in both awe and disbelief. "And what did he say then?"

David grinned. "He paused. Long silence. You know that kind of pause that makes you wonder if your soul’s about to leave your body? Yeah. That one. Then he says, in this deep voice, ’Make sure it doesn’t happen again.’ And hangs up. Like some Mafia boss straight out of a Netflix series."

Mohamed groaned, flopping back against his pillows with his hand over his face. "Noooo. You’re lying. There’s no way a rookie—barely seventeen—would talk to Joel Glazer like that and live to tell the tale. Not unless you’ve got plot armor, bro."

"Plot armor?" David laughed. "Please. I’ve got main character energy. I was born for moments like this. I was calm, I was smoother than Neymar’s footwork. I stood there, chest up, voice steady, while Ed—the poor guy—looked like he was sweating bullets. I’m telling you, man looked like he was on trial at The Hague."

Mohamed sat up properly, wincing a bit but too invested to care. "You’re mad. You are actually mad. And you probably did do it too, which is the worst part. You just walked into the lion’s den and tossed it a chicken nugget."

David pointed dramatically. "Exactly. That’s who I am. Cool under pressure. Chaos certified. And by the way, once I turn seventeen, I’m getting a car. Prakesh, you better start giving me driving lessons, yeah? I’m trying to be F1 ready."

Prakesh laughed, shaking his head. "With the way you handled that call? Mate, you deserve two cars and a backup driver."

David laughed too, a hearty, unfiltered laugh that filled the room and, for a moment, made everything else fade—the bruises, the panic, the crash. Just laughter, friends, and a story that would age like fine wine.

Then his tone shifted, the cheeky grin giving way to something a little softer, more sincere. "For real though, Mo, I didn’t want you stressing. I didn’t see you or Prakesh to call right after it all went down, and I had to check in. I know I should’ve been here quicker. That’s on me."

Mohamed nodded, eyes tired but understanding. "It’s cool. You’re here now. Just... don’t do something reckless like that again. We kinda need you alive, y’know?"

David shrugged with mock innocence. "No promises. But next time, I’ll let you do the talking with the billionaire. Fair?"

Mohamed rolled his eyes. "Only if you promise not to tell him we were ’play-fighting with steel poles’ again."

They burst out laughing again, joined by Prakesh, who clapped his hands like a proud dad watching his kids clown around.

The chaos of earlier felt far away now, like a storm that had passed, leaving behind puddles and stories. They were bruised, sure. Bandaged and sore. But alive, together, and already turning the mess into legend.

Because if nothing else, David Jones, number 19, was already writing his own myth at Manchester United.

And the season hadn’t even started yet.

As David stepped out of the hospital a short while later, the cool breeze of the early evening hit his face. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his training jacket and let out a long sigh.

"How am I supposed to get home this time?" he muttered under his breath. With the country still under heavy COVID restrictions, public transport wasn’t the easiest or safest option. No Ubers. No random lifts. It was either call someone from the club or...

He glanced down the street. Empty.

"Guess I’m jogging it," he muttered, tightening the laces on his trainers.

It wasn’t just about getting home. He needed to clear his head. Sweat it out. The truth was, everything he had told Mo and Prakesh in the hospital room... was a lie. At least, part of it.

The call with Glazer had not gone smoothly. Not even close. The moment the question—"Tell me who caused this"—boomed out of the speaker, David had frozen. The confidence he usually wore like a second skin had cracked. For the first time in a long while, he’d felt genuinely... afraid.

He didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t even recognise himself in that moment. He had frozen, his mouth half-open, heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. The shame of that silence was still wrapped around his ribs like a vice.

Thankfully, Ed had stepped in—good old Ed Woodward. Smooth-talking and ever diplomatic, Ed had begun weaving the tale, describing it as a "rare accident" and "an unfortunate miscommunication." He’d done all the talking, smoothing the tension while David stood there like a statue, wishing he could vanish.

Eventually, Ed had waved him out of the room. David had left, ears still ringing from the faint but rising screams of the owner that continued, even after the phone had been taken off speaker.

He picked up his pace now, jogging slowly through the streets as dusk began to settle. His breath was steady, but his thoughts weren’t.

"I hope everything’s okay," he murmured to himself, shaking his head.

Because deep down, he knew things weren’t.

He could feel the storm wasn’t over. Not yet.

But for now, all he could do was run.

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