The Next Big Thing
Chapter 179: Ronaldo’s Rage

Chapter 179: Ronaldo’s Rage

"What are we doing?"

David’s head shot up at the sudden voice—sharp, loud, commanding. He had been sitting silently in front of his locker, shoulders slumped, fingers knotted between his knees, his breathing slow and shallow like someone trying not to drown in thoughts. His red Manchester United jersey clung to his skin, still damp with sweat. His shin pads were off, tossed on the floor beside his boots. He looked broken—not from exhaustion, but from the weight of shame.

He had replayed it again and again—the missed assist, the run he should have timed better, the foul that turned into a counter goal. The way the ball slipped from his boot, how Tyrick had dominated him. The sight of Maguire scrambling, of Guiata’s save turning into Crystal Palace’s weapon. Of Zaha celebrating. Of the boos.

And then the scream.

David turned his head up slowly, along with several others, startled.

Cristiano Ronaldo stood in the center of the dressing room.

Not pacing. Not sitting. Standing like a man on fire. His hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he had just sprinted a marathon. His eyes—dark, intense, furious—moved across the room like a searchlight looking for someone to blame.

"I said," Ronaldo growled, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife, "WHAT ARE WE DOING, EH? EH?!"

The locker room had already been heavy—two goals down at Old Trafford on opening day. Heads had been bowed. No one had spoken. Even Ten Hag’s earlier shouting had died down. But now, Ronaldo’s voice—sharp, raw, furious—tore through the fog like thunder.

Several players flinched.

Others just froze, caught off guard by how loud he was.

David remained motionless, watching, heart thudding, hands trembling lightly.

Ronaldo’s return to Manchester United was supposed to be a moment of magic. A hero’s comeback. A dream. But now, after just one half of football, it was a nightmare. And he wasn’t just angry at the scoreline—he was angry at everything.

It had already hurt that his big return had been overshadowed. Some viral videos of the hospital fight— the kids scrapping, a bloody nose, and all that chaos—were trending above the match online. The headlines weren’t "Ronaldo Returns", they were "Teen Chaos at Old Trafford".

Now, to top it off, he was about to lose his debut match in this return?

No.No.No way in hell.

Ronaldo took another step forward, his boots slamming hard against the floor. His glare swept the room.

"We have MILLIONS—millions of fathers, sons, daughters—families, watching us. Cheering for us. Believing in us!"

He paused, his chest heaving.

"And what do we give them in return?" His voice cracked now—not with weakness, but fury barely held together.

The players looked back at him, some wide-eyed, some tight-lipped, some already hardening their expressions. There was a shift in the air—a clash of egos waiting to explode.

Some of them didn’t like it.

To them, Ronaldo was a new player. Yes, a legend at the club, but that was a decade ago. Now, he was just another signing. Some of them had fought and bled in this team for seasons. They had suffered losses, earned wins, worked hard under managers who came and went.

So, to be shouted at—in their face—by someone who just got here?

They didn’t appreciate it. Not one bit.

Shaw sat forward, elbows on knees, lips pressed so tightly together they were white.

Pogba shook his head slowly, staring down at his boots.

Fred looked away, pretending to adjust his socks.

Bruno just stared blankly at the wall, arms crossed.

But Ronaldo didn’t care.He didn’t stop.

"NOTHING!" he roared. "That’s what we’re giving them! ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!"

He pointed a finger up, jabbing the air like he wanted to drive it into the ceiling.

"Not even silence—we’re giving them PAIN. That’s what! Disappointment, embarrassment, shame!"

His gaze fell on Luke Shaw, and his voice lowered—but that made it worse. There was venom in the softness now.

"I mean come on," Ronaldo said, lips curling with disgust."See the goals. See the goals! What are we doing out there?"

Shaw looked up, eyes flickering, his fists clenching slightly. But he said nothing. His nostrils flared. His face was flushed. He hated being singled out. Especially in front of everyone.

But Ronaldo wasn’t done.He was only getting started.

"Can’t save anything, can’t defend, can’t hold the ball!" Ronaldo exploded, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. He turned sharply, glaring at Rashford, then spun toward David Jones. "Passing? Rubbish. This is rubbish. This is shit! We are playing like shit! Absolute embarrassment!"

His voice thundered through the changing room, echoing off the cold concrete walls. Sweat still clung to their skin, some of it from the match, some from the boiling tension in the room now. But Ronaldo wasn’t finished. He was just getting started.

"When I was in United, we fought for this badge," he said, slamming a fist to his chest, over the crest. "We bled for it. We died on that pitch. Not like this. Not acting like spoiled kids who can’t even kick a ball properly, can’t track back, can’t pass, can’t do the basics!"

His face was red now, his nostrils flaring, his chest rising and falling fast. The fire in his eyes was unmistakable. He wasn’t just angry—he was hurt.

"I came back to this club because I believed in something. Because I knew what it meant to wear this red. I knew what it meant to represent Manchester United. We don’t just play. We fight. We honor the shirt. We live for this club."

Shaw looked away, his jaw clenched. Maguire rubbed his temple slowly, his face twitching with restraint. Bruno sat still, breathing heavier than usual. Rashford shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. And David De Gea—still seated, towel around his neck—was no longer looking down. He was staring straight at Ronaldo now, his eyes narrowed.

"Not like spoiled kids?" De Gea finally barked, standing up. "And you? What exactly have you done today?"

Ronaldo stopped, mid-pace, spinning toward him, confused. "What?"

"I said, what are you doing?" De Gea shot back, louder now. "We could’ve been drawing 1-1 if you had converted that header! That was a clear chance. But no, you blew it. So don’t stand there acting like you’re perfect!"

The room froze. No one dared speak. Not even Ronaldo.

"And don’t lecture me about Manchester United spirit," De Gea growled, stepping closer, his voice shaking with fury. "I’ve been here for nine years. Nine. Through highs, through hell. I bleed for these colours. I’ve put my body on the line for this club. I would surrender my life for it!"

He thumped the badge on his chest, his hand trembling, his eyes locked onto Ronaldo’s. "So don’t stand there and scream at us like we’re kids and you’re the king of Old Trafford."

Ronaldo didn’t flinch. He just stared, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly... he nodded.

"Yes," he said, voice quieter now—but with a strange intensity. "Yes. This... this is what we need."

The players exchanged glances. What?

"This fire. This anger. This conviction," Ronaldo said, pointing at De Gea. "This is what I’m talking about. This is what we need out there. On the pitch. It’s not about shouting in here—it’s about showing it out there. Proving it."

He turned, sweeping his arm to gesture to the rest of the team. "It’s not just about words. Do something.Show something."

He thumped his chest again. "I’m not excluded. No. I said it. We are a team. Right now? A shitty one. But I know myself. I’ll give it my all—my entire hundred percent. I’ll fight till the last minute. I’ll do my job. I’ll score. Don’t worry about me."

He spun again, eyes scanning each face now. The intensity in the room had shifted. Ronaldo wasn’t just angry anymore. He was igniting something.

"But I need you to do your jobs. All of you. Show that same fire."

He pointed directly at De Gea.

"Look at him! Fired up. You think he’s going to repeat those mistakes? No. I know he won’t. Not after this. And the rest of you? Show the same conviction. Show that this club means something to you. That it runs through your veins."

The players were quiet—but something was building. Some stood straighter. Rashford was nodding. Bruno clenched a fist. Even Shaw’s eyes were flickering with something more than frustration now.

Ronaldo’s voice rose again, the captain in him taking full command.

"We are Manchester United! This is our home! This is our badge!" he roared. "I didn’t come back here to play testimonial games. I didn’t come here to retire. I came here to win! To win trophies! To make this club feared again!"

His eyes locked on the group, sweeping across them, burning.

"And if you came here to jog around, to lose the ball and sulk, to take the paycheck and hide when it matters..." he stepped forward, voice low but thunderous. "...then step aside go and retire you could be 18 20 40 and retire we don’t care you could even be 10. Move. Make way. Give space to those who are ready to fight."

He said it louder this time, voice thick with challenge.

He looked around the room again—but his eyes lingered. Longer than usual. Focused.

David Jones, who had been sitting silently after the earlier confrontation, now felt that stare fall on him. And it stayed.

It stayed too long.

David’s stomach twisted just a little. He froze.

Was that... directed at him?

Ronaldo was about to go on again, his mouth already open, that fierce glint still dancing in his eyes, his hands mid-gesture—when the locker room door opened with a soft metallic creak.

"Okay, okay, Cristiano," came a calm but firm voice that immediately cut through the room like a whistle through fog. "We understand."

Heads turned.

Erik ten Hag stepped in, clipboard in hand, expression composed—but not cold. The players instantly shifted, sitting straighter, adjusting towels, nudging water bottles. The atmosphere was still charged, hot from Ronaldo’s tirade, but Ten Hag’s arrival brought a subtle shift. A different kind of command had entered the room now—one not of emotion, but of control.

Ronaldo turned to him, nodded, and said, "Yes sir. Yes. We need those changes. We need direction, we need firepower."

Ten Hag raised an eyebrow and gave a half-smile. "Thank you, Ronaldo," he said, stepping forward, giving him a pat on the shoulder. "Now, just help me sit, please," he added with a touch of dry humor, prompting a few weak but grateful chuckles around the room.

David Jones watched it all from where he sat, pressed back against the cold metal of his locker. His chest still tight. His heart still not fully settled. He was trying to calm his thoughts, but they refused to slow.

Was that stare earlier really at me? Did he mean it? he wondered, casting a subtle glance at Ronaldo, who now leaned against the wall, arms crossed, breathing heavier but silent.

Ten Hag looked around, his expression shifting from one face to another, measuring the room like a chessboard. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

"Alright," he began, finally facing them all. "Here’s what we’re going to do in the second half."