The Next Big Thing
Chapter 178: Burning down

Chapter 178: Burning down

"GOALLLLLLLL!"

The eruption of the commentators’ voices shattered the tension in living rooms across the globe. The stadium screens flickered with celebration, fans in the front rows leaping to their feet, fists pumping the air, scarves twirling, a hurricane of noise and color exploding in Old Trafford.

"What a goal!" one of the commentators howled. "And I mean—what a goal! Just at the brink of extra time—this is insane. Wow!"

His partner couldn’t stop himself. "You can’t write this. You can’t make this stuff up! The build-up, the finish—it’s like poetry in motion!"

"What a run... what a cross... and my word, what a finish!" The voices rose and fell in pitch like a rollercoaster of disbelief, dragging the viewer along with them.

At home, millions were grinning, some screaming in excitement, others shaking their heads in stunned awe. The camera captured fans clutching their heads, jaws open. The commentators were still breathless.

"And... there will be no resuming," one said, his voice heavy with amazement. "Because right after that goal, the referee’s called for the break. And what a game we’re having here at Old Trafford..."

A dramatic pause.

"Manchester United 0... Crystal Palace 2."

There it was.

The sting.

The gut punch.

The illusion collapsed.

The smirks on fans’ faces at home faded slowly as reality set in. Crystal Palace had struck again. It hadn’t been a United goal at all. The entire build-up, the drama—it had been a masterful deception. And now the scoreboard told the truth.

Michael Bridges took over. "And there on the screen is Zaha, folks! Not only did he score the first goal, he’s bagged the second as well! What a performance. Am I right?"

"You’re absolutely right, Michael," David Stowell replied, trying to keep pace with the emotions. "Zaha is on fire today."

They began to rewind the moment for viewers.

"Well," Stowell continued, "it all started with Ronaldo, didn’t it? That leap... classic Ronaldo, rising like he’s floating. His header was powerful—but Guaita! My God, the Crystal Palace keeper just flew across the line like a cat on springs!"

"Unreal save," Michael added. "And then—boom! Counterattack."

"Exactly," said David. "Guaita didn’t waste a second. Released it to Joel Ward like a missile. And Ward—take a bow, lad—he fired it down the channel, found McCarthy. Then it was like magic. One-two with Ayew, absolutely slicing through Fred and McTominay like they weren’t even there."

Bridges cut in, practically laughing. "Don’t forget Shaw. He was jogging like he was sightseeing!"

"And then the cross," David continued. "A dangerous, swinging ball into the box—Zaha came flying in."

"Over Maguire, who just stood there like a statue! I mean—Zaha flew over his head!"

"Back of the net," Michael whispered, almost reverently. "A brace. At Old Trafford. Just before the break."

David sighed. "Two goals at Old Trafford... is it Zaha’s night?"

Michael chuckled. "Maybe it’s his season."

"And for Manchester United," David said gravely, "and their new manager Erik ten Hag... it’s back to the drawing board."

Manchester United 0 - 2 Crystal Palace

While The commentators talked away David jones the 16-year-old maverick was having a moment

David Jones stood frozen near the halfway line.

Everything around him moved in fast, cruel motion, but he was still—anchored by something heavier than exhaustion. A weight in his chest, in his limbs. A silent, burning ache that spread through every part of him.

Crystal Palace players jogged past, their faces lit with the purest kind of joy—unfiltered, electric, almost childish in its glee. It wasn’t just a goal. It was triumph. A statement. A message written across the face of Old Trafford.

Wilfried Zaha was at the center of it all. Laughing as he high-fived McCarthy and hugged Ward, his grin wide and unbothered. Ayew threw both hands to the heavens, mouthing something to the away fans as they bounced, screamed, and waved their flags like war banners.

"Easy!" someone on the Palace team shouted. "Too easy!"

Another voice laughed back, breathless: "They’re sleeping, mate! What are they even doing?!"

"Zaha’s running this pitch like it’s his garden!" someone else joked, drawing a round of chuckles.

Wilfried Zaha, grinning wide, threw an arm around Joel Ward, shouting something about "shutting them down at Old Trafford," his words carried clearly on the wind.

James McCarthy pumped his fists and called out to the fans, "That’s how you beat the so-called giants!" Ayew had dropped to his knees, hands to the sky, a look of joy on his face like he’d just scored the winner in a final. Mitchell and Zaha danced in celebration near the touchline, mockingly re-enacting the goal that had sealed it.

It was a scene of jubilation—raw, wild, unapologetic.

David heard it all.

Every laugh. Every mocking word. Every careless joke that twisted the knife just a little deeper.

They weren’t trying to be cruel.

That’s what made it worse.

They were just... happy. Victorious. Alive.

And he—he was sinking.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t blink. His jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. His eyes were dry but stung anyway, his expression carved into something hollow and unreadable.

One step. A limp. Another step. A sharper limp.

His left leg screamed, but it didn’t matter. The ache in his body was distant background noise compared to the grey fog pressing down on his soul. His boots dragged through the grass like anchors. His arms hung limp at his sides. No pats on the back. No whispered encouragement. No eyes meeting his.

Just silence. The kind of silence that roars in your ears and makes your chest tighten.

He looked toward the tunnel.

No one was waiting.

He walked on—shoulders slumped, eyes blank, heart a leaden stone in his chest.

He was a ghost in red.

And no one noticed when he disappeared into the dark.

While David was walking alone for the viewers at home the tv screen had changed from the brief adds shown

The scene cut to the half-time studio. Lights, microphones, and four faces that looked like they’d just witnessed a footballing funeral.

Gary Neville leaned back, arms crossed, disgust on his face.

"I said it before the match, and I’ll say it again: this is what I was dreading. This isn’t just bad—it’s a shit show."

Jamie Carragher sat up, nodding. "It’s the defending for me. I mean—Luke Shaw? Where was he? Maguire just standing there, watching Zaha fly over him like Superman."

Micah Richards laughed bitterly. "It’s like watching cones. Honestly. I’ve seen more effort from mannequins at a Nike store."

David Jones, the calm anchor, raised an eyebrow. "Let’s list them, shall we? Shaw. Maguire. Fred. McTominay."

Gary scoffed. "Disaster."

Micah nodded. "And it’s not just defense. What about the midfield? Fred looks like he’s playing underwater."

David Jones adjusted his notes. "Is this down to the coach? Does Ten Hag have any fault in this?"

All three paused for a beat.

Then Gary spoke. "Absolutely. He can’t control these players. He hasn’t stamped his authority. And this... this is the result."

Jamie nodded slowly. "Not a great way to start. Your debut match, and this happens? You’re two-nil down to Crystal Palace at home?"

David turned. "Jamie, what about the forwards? What have they contributed?"

Jamie didn’t hesitate. "I know we’ve been ripping the midfield and defense, but let’s be honest—what have the forwards done?"

Micah raised his hands. "Look, you can’t really blame Ronaldo. He’s a proper number nine now. You can’t expect him to press and fight for every ball. He’s 35 going 36 soon. You need to get the ball to him."

"I’m not talking about Ronaldo," Jamie said. "He’s the only one who’s even had a proper chance. That header was a goal if not for a world-class save."

"Then who are you blaming?" Gary asked.

Jamie shrugged. "David Jones."

Gary blinked. "The kid?"

Jamie nodded. "Yes. Six dispossessions in just one half. Six! And let’s not forget—he gave away the foul that led to the first goal. He’s trying to dribble past everyone, and it’s not working."

Micah looked uncomfortable. "That’s not fair. He’s still a kid. Sixteen mind you. Give him a chance."

"No," Jamie said firmly. "If Ten Hag decides to play him in a Premier League match, he gets judged like a Premier League player. And right now—he’s out of his depth. He keeps trying to take on his man and fails every time."

Gary added, "And he doesn’t track back."

"Exactly!" Jamie snapped. "Lazy. For a young lad, he’s lazy. And it begs the question—They bought Antony for nearly £100 million and got Sancho sitting there at home. Why aren’t they playing?"

Micah sighed. "And Rashford. He’s been invisible."

"Oh, absolutely," Jamie said. "Can’t hide that. Rashford’s done nothing."

The camera cut to clips of Rashford jogging slowly, letting passes slip away, and missing runs.

David Jones, the host, chimed in. "What about Zaha? He’s been the difference."

Gary nodded. "First goal—United’s backline just parted like the Red Sea."

Jamie grinned. "And the second one? Maguire turned into a scarecrow. Just stood there."

Micah shook his head, laughing. "Honestly, Zaha might get a hat-trick today. He’s playing with them."

Jamie leaned forward. "Look, I’m a Liverpool man. But I’ll say this—after City’s shock loss earlier, I thought we’d see a response. But this? This is garbage."

Gary chuckled. "Blue or red, eh?"

Jamie laughed. "Manchester isn’t blue. Manchester isn’t red. Manchester is just... shit."

The studio erupted in laughter, but the bite in his words lingered.

And while the commentary flew on—TVs buzzing, phones lighting up with hate and debate—inside the locker room at Old Trafford...

Another storm was brewing.

A different kind of heat.

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