The Next Big Thing
Chapter 168: Consequences

Chapter 168: Consequences

While David was feeling the weight of guilt, jogging home in an attempt to clear his mind, his thoughts spiraled into a storm. The sting of regret from the day’s disaster clawed at him, but something darker gnawed beneath the surface—fear. Real, raw fear. His doubts, once whispers, had grown louder with every step. The accident hadn’t just left bruises and bandages; it had planted seeds of uncertainty in a boy who, until now, had never truly questioned his place on the pitch or in the world.

And as he tried to run away from it—feet pounding the pavement, lungs burning with every breath—inside the sanctified halls of Manchester United’s headquarters, another storm was brewing. But this one didn’t whisper. It roared.

"How could you?!"

The voice exploded through the glass-and-steel stillness of the boardroom. A shout, furious and full of betrayal. It wasn’t just loud—it was seismic. The kind of voice that made pens freeze mid-stroke and sent coffee cups rattling against mahogany tables.

The outburst belonged to none other than Ed Woodward, the CEO of Manchester United.

For a man of his stature—measured, composed, always diplomatic—this was an extraordinary moment. Ed Woodward was not the kind to raise his voice. He was the type who handled crisis like a seasoned general: methodical, unflinching, always two steps ahead. He spoke with precision, led with strategy, and commanded respect not through fear, but through undeniable competence. In a world of shifting loyalties and ego-fueled politics, Ed had long been the pillar of steady leadership. Calm in chaos. Cool-headed in controversy. The man who made billion-pound deals without so much as loosening his tie.

Which made the sight before them—Ed Woodward, red-faced and shouting—nothing short of shocking.

The boardroom fell into a tense, disbelieving hush. Eyes darted nervously, unsure of where to look or how to react. Executives and directors who had once walked battlefields of negotiation and board-level wars now looked like startled schoolchildren. Their heads turned in slow motion toward the one man on the receiving end of that volcanic eruption.

Robert Lancing.

Senior board member. Longtime strategist. Political heavyweight. And in this moment, the man under fire.

Ed’s fury was laser-focused. No theatrics. No misfire.

"Do you think what you did made any sense?!" he bellowed again, his voice echoing off the high ceiling like a judge’s gavel in an ancient court.

Each word hit with the weight of a verdict. Robert Lancing’s face darkened—frown lines deepening, jaw twitching, the mask of confidence slipping. He was a man used to influence, not public humiliation. And yet here he stood, absorbing every blast of rage, watching as his colleagues looked at him not with admiration, but with pity—or worse, judgment.

The man who had helped steer Manchester United through seasons of triumph and turbulence now found himself isolated. Accused. Exposed.

He could feel the eyes on him. Eyes that once followed his lead now watched him burn. His pulse throbbed in his temples. The hope they had all clung to—the belief that every decision made behind those doors was in service of something greater, of club and country, of legacy and pride—suddenly felt fragile.

Still, Robert Lancing was no stranger to battle. He had fought for this club. He had fought for his nation in boardrooms and on political stages. He had believed in its mission, its future, and its sacred role in inspiring millions. He had sacrificed, strategized, and, yes, made controversial choices—all in the name of progress. But now? Now, his integrity was being torn apart before his peers.

And he had had enough.

His voice cracked with both anger and disbelief as he turned to Ed, his expression a mixture of humiliation and restrained fury. "Ed, you should really watch how you’re talking. I am not a kit boy or..."

"Warning me? That what, ehn?! Answer me — that what?" Ed roared, voice cracking through the boardroom like thunder. His eyes were burning with disbelief and fury, the veins on his neck taut and pulsing.

The room was silent save for the CEO’s words, his anger scorching through the tension-soaked air. The look Robert was still giving him — proud, defiant, and utterly unrepentant — only made it worse. Ed’s fury wasn’t just professional anymore; it had become personal.

Pushing forward, his steps loud against the tiled floor, Ed began to close the gap between them.

"You know what—" he started, raising his hand, finger stabbing toward Robert with trembling rage.

Gasps filled the room. Chairs scraped back as board members jolted up in panic. "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" they chorused, rushing forward in an attempt to intervene.

Richard, the Head of Communications — a man known for keeping things civil, who had put out a thousand PR fires with nothing but calm words and a rehearsed smile — stepped in with urgency, wrapping his arms around Ed’s shoulders. "Ed, stop! Stop! This is not worth it, just stop!" he begged, dragging the CEO back as he thrashed lightly in his grip.

Across from them, Robert was shaking with rage too. He wasn’t backing down. His tie had gone crooked in the scuffle, his eyes bloodshot with humiliation and anger. "No! Let him come! Let him come!" he shouted over Richard’s voice.

Maxwell, the club’s Head of Legal Affairs, was the one holding Robert back now, his broad arms wedging between Robert and the confrontation. "Stop! Just stop! What’s all this?" Maxwell hissed, trying to get through to him.

But Robert only shouted louder. "He started it! Talk to him, not me! What’s wrong with him?!" His voice cracked with frustration, but underneath it, a thread of fear began to appear. He had miscalculated something — badly.

Ed, still restrained, stopped struggling. His chest was rising and falling rapidly as he allowed Richard to hold him back. "I’m good. I’m good. I’m good..." he began to say — and then repeated it five more times, each one a little quieter than the last, like a mantra he was using to keep himself from exploding again.

Richard, satisfied Ed had calmed down, gently let go of him.

Ed turned sharply, his body tense and trembling — then screamed.

"FUCK!"

The word echoed like a bomb in the room. Silence slammed into the space. Maxwell turned his head in shock. Everyone froze — no one had ever seen Ed Woodward like this.

The Ed they knew was measured, diplomatic, refined. He was the man who could take criticism from fans, media storms, and boardroom pressure without blinking. But now? He was undone. Unleashed.

And then he turned again, his eyes back on Robert. His presence alone made the others shift, as if instinctively trying to form a shield around Robert. But Ed raised his hands calmly.

"I’m fine," he said. "I’m fine. I’m fine." His voice was steady now, but there was still fire beneath the calm. He took a long breath in. Then another. Deep, slow, trying to force the storm back into its cage.

The room didn’t move. Every man inside was frozen — warriors who had fought hard for their club, their careers, and the pride of their nation. They had known crises before, had debated transfers and navigated political landmines, but nothing like this. This felt different. Like history was being made.

Then Ed spoke again. Quiet. Icy.

"Get out."

No emotion. Just a cold, clear command. And yet it hit harder than all the shouting.

Richard, still close to him, tried to step in. "Okay, men, let’s all calm down. Ed didn’t mean that. Let’s just gather ourselves and—"

But Ed cut him off.

"No," he said, voice calm but firm. "I’m not joking. I am calm. And I can think straight now. What I need... is to think of what next to do. And I can do that when that SNAKE is out of here."

The way he spat the word made everyone flinch. It wasn’t loud, but it was venomous — the kind of bitterness that only came from betrayal.

He continued, his voice clearer now, a tragic blend of heartbreak and certainty.

"All these things you’re doing — they won’t change anything. It won’t make you CEO."

The tension in the room doubled. Everyone stood a little straighter, eyes wide, pulses racing. Ed was pulling back the curtain. And no one could look away.

"This thing you’re doing... it’s just bringing the club down," he continued. "You think you’re right, ehn? You think you’re the big man, feeling yourself, is that it? You want to be CEO, ehn?"

He leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on Robert’s.

"Well, from this? From what I’ve seen today? You can never be."

Robert, whose face had hardened into a scowl, snapped.

"I think I need to leave."

He straightened his jacket, taking a breath that sounded forced, composed but shaking underneath. "Ed is clearly being emotional. He’s not thinking straight. I didn’t do anything wrong. The kid just has to face his consequences. And Ed too... Ed will have to face his, for this outburst."

"Consequences, ehn?" Ed repeated, his voice low and dangerous.

"Yes. Consequences," Robert said again, with a short nod, as he turned and walked out.

Ed stared at the door long after it closed.

Maxwell and Richard stayed behind, slowly walking toward him, their voices low and cautious as they tried to calm him.

"Ed, you need to relax," Maxwell said first, tone firm but not harsh. "We’re in a PR crisis already. We can’t add fuel to it. The optics are bad, Ed."

"Let’s chill," Richard added. "We’re all tired. This thing’s heavy already."

Ed just nodded, not looking at them. "No problem... No problem..."

They gave him a look, then left quietly, giving him the space he now clearly needed.

Alone in his office, Ed sat down heavily, the weight of it all collapsing onto him like a building.

He took another deep breath — the biggest one yet — his chest rising as he leaned his head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling.

"What can I do... what can I do..." he whispered to himself, the words falling like drops in a storm.

Fucking Robert.

He remembered it all now — every detail. He had found a way to calm Joel down. To spin the story just enough, not to lie, but to guide it. To make him listen to reason. To shield the worst of it without breaking the truth. He had a plan.

But then Robert — the stupid cunt — had opened his mouth and said it.

"The player that caused all this is called David Jones. One of Ole’s last buys."

That alone... was a trigger.

Joel had been banking on Sancho.

A new hope. A symbol of resurgence. Not just for the club, but for the nation’s spirit. In a country where football was more than sport — where it was heart, pride, and sometimes even politics — Sancho was meant to be the banner bearer. The face of a new dawn. A phoenix after years of mediocrity. He wasn’t just a player to Joel. He was the project.

Everything had been carefully laid out — a roadmap to revival. Sancho would lead the charge, flanked by talent, nurtured by strategy. And above all, protected from chaos.

Then Robert opened his mouth.

"The player that caused all this is called David Jones... one of the players from Ole’s last buys."

That single sentence detonated like a bomb in the room.

Joel — who had always opposed David — had turned red before the sentence even landed. He had warned against the signing, had called David "raw," "immature," "a wasted jersey," even in private briefings. He’d tolerated David at best — but never accepted him.

To hear that he was the cause of the current scandal?

It shattered something.

Joel was not a man known for calmness or measured judgment. He didn’t explode often, but when he did, it was volcanic — hot, loud, and impossible to ignore.

He had erupted.

He had ranted, pounded the table, barked into the air like a general betrayed by his own lieutenants. His words weren’t just angry; they were cutting. They were laced with disbelief and fury, as if a great trust had been broken. He had looked at Ed — not like a partner, but like a man who had failed to guard the gates.

And then he said it.

"Get rid of him. Solve this."

Four words. Brutal. Final. Delivered like an execution order. And ever since, they had been echoing in Ed’s mind — bouncing around like a curse that couldn’t be shaken.

But it wasn’t the finality of the words that haunted Ed.

It was the fact that they weren’t directed at Robert.

They were about David.

David — the kid. The wildcard. The controversial signing Ed had once defended in private meetings. The boy with untapped talent and a messy past. The one Ed had argued could still shine. Could still be reformed. Could still be worth it.

Joel hadn’t seen that.

Now, he didn’t want to.

And Robert... Robert had exposed it all. Loudly. Carelessly. Publicly. With no awareness of the damage he was doing.

He didn’t just throw David under the bus — he made sure the tires reversed back over him twice.

And Ed? Ed had nearly gotten Joel to calm down. He had spun the story delicately, softened the edges, tried to make it sound like a misunderstanding, an unfortunate incident, something fixable. Not a fatal error. Not a strategic collapse.

He had almost done it.

Until Robert spoke.

Until Robert turned what could have been damage control into full-blown disaster.

Now, the board was divided. The media vultures were circling. And Joel, the most important piece of this entire puzzle, had made his stance crystal clear:

"Get rid of him. Solve this."

Those words wouldn’t leave Ed alone.

He sat in his office, fists clenched, breathing hard, as the full weight of it settled in.

Not just the anger. Not just the betrayal.

But the cold reality of what had just been lost.

Sancho wasn’t just a player. He was the beacon. The flag planted into the soil of a comeback.

And now, thanks to Robert... thanks to one careless, senseless sentence...

That beacon was flickering.

And the kid — the one Ed had believed in — was hanging by a thread.