The Next Big Thing
Chapter 171: Startling Lineup

Chapter 171: Startling Lineup

David stepped out of the bus, the roar of the stadium faint behind the concrete walls. He could feel the pulse of the crowd already forming outside Old Trafford, even though the match wasn’t until the next day. The air had that familiar scent of grass and old ambition, of legacy and expectation. The sun hung low over the famous red-brick fortress, casting golden shadows across the car park as he adjusted the strap of his gym bag. His boots thudded softly against the walkway, and with each step, he felt the ache in his legs creep higher—a dull, stubborn reminder of the week’s brutal training.

He walked slowly toward the players’ entrance, his head buzzing. Inside that stadium, history had been made—glory written in sweat, blood, and tears. But today, David felt none of the glory. Just pressure. Pressure so thick he could barely breathe. His heart thumped against his ribs, a silent war drum leading him into battle.

He reached for the door, took a breath, and just as he was about to push it open, it swung out toward him.

Ed Woodward.

The man who had once fought for him, the man who had made sure David even had a chance to show up today, walked out with a face like cold steel.

David froze. "Ed..." he said, voice soft, uncertain.

Ed paused.

David took a step forward, fumbling for words. "I just wanted to say... thank you. For earlier. I mean it. You didn’t have to—"

But Ed didn’t reply. Not a smile. Not a nod. Just a glance.

A look that carried a thousand buried meanings. One that made David feel smaller than he’d ever felt. Then, without a word, Ed turned on his heel and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the corridor.

David stood there, the silence heavy around him. His thank-you hung in the air like a feather falling in slow motion. He swallowed hard, his chest tightening. What had that look meant? Had he disappointed him already? Was it regret in Ed’s eyes? Pity?

He shook his head, trying to gather himself. The ache in his legs had spread, mingling with the weight in his heart. As he stepped into the locker room, the lights above buzzed softly, casting sterile white across the quiet space.

He walked past the rows of lockers, his footsteps muffled by the rubber floor. The names—bold and proud—lined the wall like armor. Fernandes. Pogba. Rashford. Ronaldo.

He found his spot. DAVID, printed in thick black font over the locker that felt more like borrowed space than earned territory. He slumped onto the bench in front of it, letting his bag fall beside him. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor.

The early incident played on repeat in his head. Ten Hag. Ed. The threat. The silence. And the possibility of being nothing more than a pawn in a much bigger game. He clenched his fists. Was he really supposed to just sit here and act like it didn’t matter?

Time passed. Slowly, players trickled in.

Laughter. Footsteps. Familiar voices echoing through the room. The room began to fill up with energy, with that chaotic, confident buzz of a United locker room.

Ronaldo entered like a storm. Chin up, posture perfect, radiating that same magnetic pull that had captivated millions around the world. He dropped his bag, then clapped Fred on the back. "You still can’t shoot, mate," he joked in that thick Portuguese accent.

Fred grinned. "Still better than your headers lately."

Sancho came in next, laughter following him like perfume. "Don’t worry," he said to Martinez, "I’m not bringing any handcuffs with me this time."

Rashford, stretching as he walked, grinned and called out, "Yo, Sancho! How was the prison cell, bro?"

The whole room erupted in laughter. Sancho held up his hands in surrender, already laughing himself. "Hey, hey, I told y’all, it was just a misunderstanding."

"Did you drop the soap?" Rashford teased, ducking to avoid the towel Sancho chucked at him.

"Nah, bruv, I had my back to the wall the whole time," Sancho fired back, setting off another round of jokes and loud belly laughs.

Everyone was in high spirits. Even Antony, usually quiet, was grinning, whispering something to Malacia that had the young Dutchman wiping tears from his eyes.

But David...

He sat there.

Still.

A spectator in a show he didn’t belong to.

His fingers curled into the hem of his shorts, eyes darting between teammates. They felt like strangers. Or maybe he felt like one. He wanted to laugh. To smile. To be part of this.

But the weight of uncertainty and guilt clung to him like soaked cloth. The earlier tension, Ed’s cold shoulder, and the mysterious decision Ten Hag had yet to reveal all churned inside him.

Then the locker room doors swung open with a metallic screech.

Ten Hag.

Sharp as ever, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the room like a general inspecting troops. The room didn’t fall silent immediately—some players still whispered, cracked jokes. But as soon as his shoes clicked further in, the energy shifted.

"Alright," he said, voice level. "Light practice today. We go for two hours, just rhythm, spacing, reaction drills. No full contact. Match tomorrow is priority."

He paused, then looked around at the faces.

"And when we come back," he said slowly, eyes now sharper, "we’ll go over the lineup. Plan. Movements. Set-pieces. Everything."

Bruno raised his hand. "Gaffer, do we still get protein shakes after practice? Asking for Fred."

Fred rolled his eyes. "Man, don’t blame me!"

Laughter again.

Ten Hag gave a rare smile, faint but present. Then he nodded. "Just don’t be late."

Two hours later, boots thudded again against the corridor floors as the players trickled back in. Some still had their bibs on. Others joked about how Martinez had nutmegged Varane. The air was looser now, anticipation thickening with every second.

David walked slower.

Each step made his leg feel worse. But he didn’t complain. He gritted his teeth, clenched his jaw, and limped inside, acting as casual as he could. He could still hear Ten Hag in his head: no complaints. The last thing he wanted was pity.

As he entered the locker room, a sudden hush fell.

Ten Hag stood there, already waiting. Arms crossed. Behind him, a whiteboard stood tall, covered with a red cloth.

David’s heart skipped.

This was it.

"Alright," Ten Hag said, voice commanding but calm. "Quiet down."

Murmurs faded.

"Let’s see the lineup for tomorrow," he said.

And with a single motion, he pulled the cloth away.

The air in the locker room had finally calmed, the murmurs and banter now long faded into a tense silence. Erik ten Hag stood before the team, his gaze heavy, but his mind even heavier. As the players leaned forward, waiting for the final confirmation of tomorrow’s lineup, Ten Hag wasn’t just thinking about formations or pressing lines. His thoughts were wrestling with something deeper—a conversation that had left a splinter in his soul.

Ed Woodward’s words had been clear, calculated, and chilling. Not a plea. Not advice. A threat disguised in civility. "David out or Ten Hag out. Your choice."

He remembered the way Ed’s eyes had stayed locked on his, the fake politeness of his smile unable to mask the weight behind those words. The implication was simple: toe the line or be replaced. But Ten Hag had been through storms before. He knew compromise was necessary in football, but this—this wasn’t compromise. This was sabotage. And he wasn’t going to let that happen to his team.

"No problem, Ed," Ten Hag had replied back then, calm on the outside, even though his insides boiled.

Now, as he stared at the whiteboard, a new conviction wrapped around him like armor. "This is my team," he whispered inside his mind. "I know my vision. I know what I see in training. I know who deserves to be out there."

He glanced up, eyes scanning the room. This was his family now. Players from different nations, backgrounds, egos—but united by a badge and a goal. He took a breath, then finally said aloud:

"Yes, we will be going with the starting lineup we had against Aston Villa in the pre-season match."

He paused, catching the flickers of surprise and satisfaction among his squad. Some leaned in, some smirked.

"Aaron Wan-Bissaka at right-back. Harry Maguire and Victor Lindelöf as the center-back duo. Luke Shaw on the left. David de Gea in goal. Our midfield trio—Bruno Fernandes, Paul Pogba, and Scott McTominay. And up front... Marcus Rashford on the left, Cristiano Ronaldo as the central striker, and David Jones on the right."

A low murmur swept the room. Some eyes went to David, who looked as if his soul had just stepped out of his body. Shock. Disbelief. A quiet surge of pride.

Ten Hag looked back at the board, gaze resting on the right-wing spot. His voice dropped just slightly as he repeated inwardly, "This is my team."

Then he faced them all again.

"Okay," he clapped once. "Now for the tactics."

For the next hour and a half, Ten Hag moved through the paces. He mapped out the attack transitions, the press triggers, fallback shapes, rotations, and late-game adjustments. He pointed at the board, pulled players in to clarify movements, and checked for understanding.

"You’ve all seen the clips," he said. "You know what to do when we don’t have the ball, especially in their half. Don’t let their midfield breathe. We win this game from the first whistle."

There were nods all around.

"Now," he said with a more relaxed tone, placing the marker down, "go rest. I don’t want anyone out late. Hydrate. Foam roll. No heavy meals. No gaming till 4 AM."

Laughter.

Then with a playful smirk, he added, "And yes... no stress relief with your partners tonight. We need those legs fresh."

The room burst into laughter. Ronaldo clapped his thigh. Pogba shook his head, laughing. Rashford teased, "Sancho’s in trouble."

Even Sancho, who had been quiet, raised his hand and laughed, "Yo, coach is wild for that one!"

Then Ten Hag grew serious.

"Listen," he said, his voice softer but more commanding, "Tomorrow isn’t just a match. It’s a statement. To the league. To the fans. To the board. To everyone who doubts what we can do. I believe in this team. Not because of names or salaries, but because of what I’ve seen every day in training. This is our year. And tomorrow, we start with fire. You hear me?"

"YES COACH!" they shouted back.

"No doubts," he said. "No fear. We are Manchester United."

"WE ARE UNITED!" the team roared.

As the players started leaving, still charged with laughter and energy, Ten Hag turned to grab his clipboard—but then paused.

"David Jones," he said calmly.

The room, still buzzing, suddenly quieted.

David froze, halfway into his jacket. He slowly turned around, a little dazed.

"Come and see me in my office."

A beat of silence.

David nodded, heart already pounding in his chest.

As the others began filing out, many with glances toward him—some curious, some envious—David moved slowly toward the gaffer’s door, his stomach in a knot. His mind was racing. Was it the leg? Was he found out? Was the start a mistake?

He pushed the door open.

Ten Hag stood there, arms folded, eyes heavy with something unreadable.

David started, his voice nervous, cracking a little. "The le—"

Ten Hag cut him off.

"I won’t lie to you, David. Things are tight."

David stopped breathing for a second.

"There are people at the top who don’t think you should be starting. Who don’t even think you should be here."

He didn’t say any names, but he didn’t need to.

"They want someone else. Someone safer. More proven. But that’s not football. That’s politics. And I don’t coach politics."

David looked at the floor.

Ten Hag stepped closer.

"But I trust you. Not just because I saw your numbers. Or because your technique is sharp. I trust you because you never let setbacks define you. Because even when your leg hurts, you’re still fighting to be seen. Because when I look at that right-wing spot—I see you."

David blinked, chest rising.

"Tomorrow is your moment, David. It’s your chance to silence every whisper, every shadow. I want you to walk on that pitch and make everyone who doubted you regret it. Do you hear me, David?"

David looked up slowly.

"Yes, gaffer."

"And what will you do tomorrow?"

A pause.

"Prove them all wrong, sir."

Ten Hag nodded once. No more words.

David stepped out from the office, the hallway quieter now. He paused at the door, leaning slightly against the wall. He didn’t feel the ache in his leg anymore. Not really. His head was louder. His heart, louder still.

"Tomorrow is my last chance," he whispered.

Then he straightened, looking down the empty corridor.

"I will prove them all wrong."