The Next Big Thing
Chapter 170: You or Him or Me

Chapter 170: You or Him or Me

As David walked through the tunnel into the stadium, his heart pounded—fast and wild. Every step echoed in the corridor, but none louder than the drumbeat in his chest. This wasn’t just another day of training. It was the eve of something greater. Tomorrow, the Premier League. His possible debut.

The thought made his stomach flutter.

To wear the red jersey—not just in training, not just in youth games—but on the biggest stage in English football? It was the kind of moment he’d dreamed about for years. He could already imagine stepping out into the roaring stadium lights, his name echoing through the stands, his boots on the green turf as millions watched. If the coach picked him for the starting eleven... it would change everything.

And somewhere deep inside, even though nerves twisted in his gut, David dared to hope. He felt it. His faith in what was to come was already beginning to take shape. It was already being sealed.

Meanwhile, in the manager’s office...

The air inside the locker room office was tense, heavy with something unspoken. Erik ten Hag sat behind his desk, reviewing his lineup notes, until the door creaked open and Ed Woodward stepped in.

"You want me to what?" Ten Hag said, looking up sharply.

Ed’s face remained composed, his tone clipped and businesslike. "David. The club’s owner believes it’s in our best interest to... keep him out of the squad for now. I came to inform you that you should not include him in the lineup."

There was a beat of silence. Ten Hag’s brow furrowed slightly. His eyes narrowed, not in anger—yet—but in surprise. A different kind of surprise. One that felt like a warning.

Ed, sensing the hesitation, pressed on. "Well, it shouldn’t be that much of a big deal, right? I mean, it’s not like he’s a household name or anything. We could move him back to the reserve squad. Maybe give him time in the lesser competitions. And by the next window—if we play this right—we could at least recoup some of the money we spent on him."

The words felt clinical. Cold. Stripped of all the passion Ed once showed.

Because Ten Hag remembered. He remembered the same Ed Woodward nearly coming to blows with another executive, all in defense of the very boy they were now discussing like some poor investment. Back then, Ed called him "a generational talent," "the future of English football," and "a star in the making."

And now?

Ten Hag stared at him, his expression unreadable but edged with something close to disbelief. "Wait... what?" he said, almost too quietly. Then he shook his head slowly, processing what he was hearing. "Weren’t you the one who kept convincing me? Telling me how good the kid is? How he’s the future? And now—now we’re talking about selling him?"

Ed’s eyes dropped for a second before he composed himself again. "All that doesn’t matter now."

But before he could finish, Ten Hag cut in sharply.

"Wait—is this because of the accident?" His tone had shifted. Not angry. Not yet. But firmer. Sharper. There was steel in his voice now.

Ed didn’t respond at first.

Which only deepened Ten Hag’s suspicion.

"It is, isn’t it?" the manager said, almost to himself.

Ed finally looked him in the eye and said, "Well, even if it was... isn’t that enough of a case to take action?"

He exhaled before continuing, his voice now carrying the weight of someone who had already made peace with the cost of his decision.

"Look, Erik... this is a kid who has no real pedigree. He’s not from the academy. He’s not a big signing. And already, he’s stirring up headlines for all the wrong reasons. We tried to contain it, but the story is out. It’s everywhere. People are already calling Manchester United a joke. A circus."

He paused, folding his arms across his chest.

"He’s hurting the brand. And like it or not, the brand is everything at this level. I don’t like it either—but I have a responsibility to the badge. To the board. I have to put the club first—as I always have. No player is bigger than the club."

He said it seriously—

Ten Hag was silent for a while.

He stared at the floor, then looked back up at Ed, his jaw clenched, mind turning. When he finally opened his mouth, his voice was calm—firm, but not angry. "I understand where you’re coming from, Ed. I do. But you—"

Before he could finish, Ed cut in sharply, stepping forward.

"Why are you so insistent on this?" Ed asked, a flicker of frustration in his voice. "On more than one occasion, you made it very clear you didn’t approve of signings that had nothing to do with you. You’ve always pushed back. So why now? Why all this defending over a player you don’t even like?"

Ten Hag didn’t miss a beat. His response came fast, and unexpectedly direct.

"Because of you," he said.

Ed blinked. The bluntness of the reply caught him off guard.

But Ten Hag wasn’t finished.

He stepped out from behind his desk, his voice growing more animated as he spoke. "You were the one who came into this office, sat in that chair, and told me how talented this kid was. How he had something rare. You told me he could become one of the best in the world. Well, Ed..." he paused, taking a breath, "after weeks of watching him—training him—seeing him respond to pressure, hearing how he talks, seeing how he fights, how he runs..."

He stepped toward the tactical board in the center of the room.

"I’m here to tell you... you were right."

He pulled the cloth off the board with one swift motion, revealing the starting lineup for the match against Crystal Palace.

And there—bold, clear, undeniable—was a name.

Right Wing – David Jones

Ed’s expression shifted. His eyes widened slightly, and for the first time in the conversation, he looked visibly shaken—not by anger, but by surprise. He took a step closer, scanning the board. There it was. Real. Official. Decided.

"How?" Ed asked quietly, not out of protest, but disbelief.

Ten Hag turned to him, now speaking with absolute conviction.

"In training... despite being what—sixteen?—he has outshone everyone. When you combine his speed, his finishing, his tracking back, his decision-making—he’s been, by far, our best player."

He held Ed’s gaze. There was no hesitation in him now. He had made his choice. Not because he liked the boy’s behavior or style, but because, as a coach, he recognized greatness when he saw it.

And Erik ten Hag was many things, but above all, he was a realist. He didn’t sugarcoat. He didn’t play politics when it came to talent.

No, he didn’t particularly like David Jones. The boy was loud, too dramatic for his taste, a bit reckless, even. And yes, Ten Hag had his own favorite—Antony, his boy, his reliable winger.

But denying what was right in front of him?

Not in his nature.

Right now, at sixteen years old, David Jones was one of—if not the—best player in Manchester United’s squad.

Ed was still reeling, his mind struggling to catch up with the shock of what he’d just seen on the board. The name. The number. The age. A sixteen-year-old starting for Manchester United.

He drew in a sharp breath, steadied himself, then asked cautiously, "And... the player getting dropped?"

Everyone knew the implications. With Jadon Sancho’s recent addition to the squad, someone had to give way. The matchday list was tight. The decision wouldn’t come without backlash.

Ten Hag’s face hardened, the weight of the decision clear in his eyes. He had spent hours—nights, even—reviewing clips, breaking down stats, watching training footage frame by frame with his staff. After all that, they came to one conclusion.

"The player that will be dropped," he said firmly, "is Greenwood."

Ed flinched slightly. "What—the academy player?"

Ten Hag raised his hand calmly, the tone of a coach who had anticipated every question. "Yes. Listen. Sancho won’t be selected for the Crystal Palace match. He hasn’t had nearly enough training time with the team. Throwing him in now wouldn’t be fair to him, or the squad." He stood now, pacing slowly in front of the whiteboard, his voice taking on the rhythm of someone explaining a masterplan he could already see forming in his mind.

"But after this match," Ten Hag continued, "next week’s training will be crucial. Sancho and David—yes, David—they’ll compete for the position. Though truth be told, it might not even be a straight fight for the right wing. I’m already experimenting. I’m thinking about a fluid front four."

He paused, letting the vision settle in the room like mist on a pitch before dawn.

"Rashford. Ronaldo. Sancho. David. Interchanging, moving like fire and water. Rashford through the middle. Maybe even Sancho on the left. It’s all open. But Greenwood..."

He turned to Ed now, his voice calm but honest. "Without an injury in the front four, it’s unlikely Greenwood will start again anytime soon."

Ed’s brow furrowed as Ten Hag pressed on.

"Antony’s going to play a serving role—he can be a super-sub. With his speed, his flair, his ability to dribble past tired legs in the 60th or 70th minute, he could change the game. He’s more versatile than Greenwood. He can pass, shoot, cross. Even take decent free kicks. If used right, he can be devastating."

Then Ten Hag paused again.

He could see it. The future. The upcoming 2020/21 season stretched before him like a vision, clear and exhilarating. The flaw in the team—he had diagnosed it. The defense was shaky, and with barely any time to rebuild it before the season kicked off, he had shifted focus. His midfield—Fred, Pogba, Bruno—still needed polishing, but it was solid. His attack, though?

Sharp. Lethal.

In training, he had seen it. Ronaldo, despite the whispers about his age, was still the top finisher—ice-cold in front of goal. And with his young, energetic wingers beside him, they could make up for his slowing legs. They could hunt. They could serve. They could soar.

A rare smile played on Ten Hag’s lips. For the first time in weeks, he felt something strange blooming in his chest.

Hope.

Excitement.

He couldn’t wait for the season to begin.

But Ed, watching him from across the room, let the optimism pass like it meant nothing. His expression shifted back to its usual cold, unreadable mask. "I’m sorry to burst your bubble, Erik," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "But David can’t start. Nor can he be in the squad. Especially if Sancho won’t be."

Ten Hag blinked. "What?"

"I don’t even want to imagine what Joel will say if he finds out the boy started and Sancho wasn’t even called up," Ed said, shaking his head as if trying to erase the mental image. "It’d be a nightmare."

But before Ten Hag could respond, Ed cut him off again.

"Well, thank goodness my contract gives me full autonomy over the matchday squad," Ten Hag said, rising from his chair with quiet conviction. "No board interference. No politics. My team. My decisions."

He returned to his desk, deliberately turning his back to Ed, signalling that the conversation, in his mind, was over.

But Ed stood his ground.

A beat passed. Then he spoke—low, deliberate, and with a coldness that sent a chill across the room.

"Well, thank God this isn’t a board intervention," Ed said. "This is bigger."

He stepped closer to the desk.

"This is a direct order from the owner."

Ten Hag slowly turned, the weight of those words landing hard.

"David’s out... or you’re out. It’s your choice," Ed said quietly, then turned and walked out of the office without another word. with him muttering "Or i am out" as he disappeared.

Ten Hag didn’t move.

He sat there at his desk, his eyes fixed on the door Ed Woodward had just walked out of.

Silence blanketed the room.

The vision. The lineup. The season he thought he could finally make his mark.

And now—uncertainty.

For the first time, he felt a crack in his resolve. A small, bitter seed of doubt began to form.

It was all right there...

And now, it could all slip through his fingers.

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