The Next Big Thing
Chapter 183: Win

Chapter 183: Win

Win.Win.Win.Win.Win.Win.Win.Win.

That was all David could hear inside his mind. Not the echoes of the empty stadium. Not the shout of his coach on the sideline. Not even the nagging pain pulsing through his left leg. Just that one word, repeated over and over like a war drum pounding inside his head.

Win.

It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even a goal. It was a command. A need. The only thing that made sense in the chaos of ninety minutes.

He was on the right wing, locked in. Breathing through his nose, exhaling sharply through his mouth like a sprinter in the last seconds of a race. Sweat clung to his temple, dripping down the side of his face, mixing with the heat of frustration, adrenaline, and pain.

The ball came—fast, low, skimming the pitch. Pogba had spotted him, just inside the halfway line. The Frenchman’s touch was velvet, but the delivery had fire. David’s right boot cushioned the ball as it came in. It kissed his sole and rolled forward perfectly, the kind of touch that you could feel in your soul. He turned on instinct.

He could hear everything. That was the oddest part. There were no fans—COVID protocols had sucked the soul from Old Trafford—but the silence had a presence of its own. In that vacuum, the voices carried like bullets.

"Pass, David!"

"Switch it!"

"Back! Back!"

"Don’t let him turn!"

"Tackle him!"

He could hear the Crystal Palace bench. The shouts of Maguire behind him. The gravelly growl of Fred’s accent as he called for the ball. The stomps of boots on turf. The bark of the referee warning someone about a late tackle. Even the brush of his sock against his shin pad as he shifted his weight.

David was in the zone.

His lungs ached. His left leg throbbed with that now-familiar pain—one he’d buried deep, behind the masks of grit and adrenaline. He hadn’t told the medics. Hadn’t told Ten Hag. Hadn’t even told Bruno. It was his secret. His fight.

He felt Tyrick Mitchell coming up. He didn’t need to look. He knew the Palace full-back was right there—tight, pressing high, but... disrespectful. Not really paying attention. Not closing down like he should.

David didn’t rush. He let the moment breathe.

He turned back, let the ball roll under his studs, and sent a crisp pass back to Wan-Bissaka, who had offered himself as an outlet. One touch. Back to David. He shifted it quickly to Bruno. The Portuguese gave it and spun off. Another pass. Fred joined. Another one-two. It was poetry in triangles.

Tiki-taka. No flash. No stepovers. No heel flicks.

Just clean, lethal geometry.

The ball zipped between them—three United shirts, flowing like water. Mitchell couldn’t keep up. Neither could Eze, who tried to press high. It was too fast. Too precise.

David had been the glue. The center of the web. And now he was through.

He was past Tyrick.

The full-back turned, a split-second too late, and David was already five paces ahead. The play had worked. Not because of pace. Not because of power. But because of brain. And timing.

But there was one more defender.

Cheikhou Kouyate. The veteran center-back. Eyes not even on David—he was watching Ronaldo, shadowing the striker’s run into the box. He hadn’t seen David sneak inside from the wing, cutting toward the edge of the area.

And David?

David wasn’t afraid.

His breath was still. His hands low. Shoulders relaxed.

He shifted slightly—just a small body feint. Enough.

Kouyate flinched. A half-step. Off balance.

That was all David needed.

He didn’t even bother to blow past him. He didn’t need to. With his right foot, he pulled the ball in, raised his head, and adjusted his stance.

The goal was there. Vicente Guaita—Crystal Palace’s keeper—was coming out, reading the danger. He was a wall, charging. Making himself big. But David had already made the decision.

He pulled back his right leg and struck it clean.

The ball lifted off the turf like a prayer on wings. Spinning, curving, slicing through the air like a whisper. It soared over the scrambling limbs of Cahill, bending past Kouyaté who was late to recover.

Ronaldo had his arm up, expecting a cross, but David wasn’t passing. Not this time.

"Go," he whispered, almost to himself.

And the ball listened.

Up it went, curling, arching perfectly toward the far top corner.

David stood still.

He didn’t run. Didn’t celebrate. Didn’t even blink.

It was only sixty-eight minutes in.

But in that moment—he had reached something else.

Euphoria.

The ball curved like a possessed thing—wild, unpredictable, beautiful. It spun in the air, bending left, then right, as if unsure of which law of physics it wanted to obey. Crystal Palace’s defenders paused for a beat, expecting their keeper to grab it easily. The goalkeeper, eyes locked, took a step forward, then hesitated. That moment of doubt was all it took.

The ball swerved again, dipping wickedly at the last second, gliding just past the keeper’s outstretched fingertips.

And out of nowhere—Marcus Rashford.

The forward lunged in, sneaking between the defenders like a whisper, and poked the ball with his toe. The net bulged.

Manchester United 1. Crystal Palace 2.

Rashford leapt into the air, punching the sky. His teammates swarmed him, shouting, hugging, chaos exploding in the mostly silent stadium. With no fans in the stands due to the COVID restrictions, the screams of the players echoed even louder, unfiltered and raw.

But David Jones stood alone on the right flank, hands on his knees, gasping for breath. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his left leg pulsing in sharp pain, but he didn’t care. He didn’t even smile. He simply stared at Rashford celebrating, watched his teammates jump on each other like they’d won it all.

David muttered to himself, voice low and serious:

"Job’s not finished."

He was already thinking about the equalizer. Already plotting.

The match resumed. David played smart, passing quickly, moving into spaces, never holding the ball long. He connected with Bruno, flicked it to Fred, overlapped with Wan-Bissaka. One-twos and triangles, all calculated. He didn’t need the spotlight—he just kept the tempo, the glue between movements.

As he was jogging into position, without the ball, he noticed Tyrick Mitchell closing in from the side. The Palace full-back looked at him with a crooked grin.

"Guess I was wrong about you, kid," Tyrick muttered, not even trying to hide his sarcasm. "You’re... somewhat decent."

David ignored him. His eyes were on the ball, on the play unfolding ahead.

Tyrick chuckled, baiting. "Watch this next one. We’re about to bury you again."

Still no response.

David heard the distant shout: "CATCH!"

His head whipped around. The ball was coming. Fast. Dropping down into their flank.

Tyrick growled, "Not on my watch!"—and slammed into him.

David felt the pressure immediately. Tyrick’s weight pressed into him like a wall, trying to shove him off balance. David gritted his teeth. His left leg burned, screaming under the strain, but he planted it. The pain made him dizzy, but he stayed up.

"Come on then, hotshot," Tyrick sneered. "Fall over already."

The ball dropped.

David stepped forward. Controlled it with his right foot.

Then, like lightning, he flicked it between Tyrick’s legs—a nutmeg. The crowd would’ve lost it, if there was one.

But just as he turned to chase it down, Tyrick roared, "No way, little man!" and grabbed his shirt from behind.

David shouted as he lost balance, crashing onto the pitch.

The whistle blew. Foul.

David rolled onto his back, chest rising like a piston. Tyrick began walking away.

"Yo," David called out from the ground.

Tyrick turned, his face unreadable.

"Thanks," David said, deadly calm. "This is 2–2."

Tyrick barked a laugh. "Alright then, baller."

As David stood, limping slightly, he saw Bruno already cradling the ball. Determined. Focused.

David limped over to him and asked, "Can I play it with you?"

—

On the touchline, Erik ten Hag stood still, arms crossed, eyes burning into the pitch. Beside him, his assistant leaned in.

"With Maguire and Ronaldo in the box," the assistant said, "we could equalize from this."

Ten Hag didn’t reply right away. He was watching the defensive setup. Watching Tyrick jogging back. Watching David.

"I hate this defense," Ten Hag muttered under his breath. "We need another destroyer in defense... not just one—maybe two. But David..."

He watched #19 reposition himself again, talking to Bruno.

"If we could pair Bruno and David in a double pivot..." Ten Hag exhaled. "Free Bruno. Let David hold. God..."

His thoughts were broken by the ref’s whistle. He blinked, brought back to the present.

He looked up.

In front of the ball stood Bruno Fernandes—and David Jones.

Ten Hag’s brow furrowed. Bruno was the set-piece man from this range. David had no free kick duty. So why was he there?

Then David started running.

Ten Hag assumed it was a dummy run. Bruno would take it.

But he was wrong.

David took the shot.

His left leg whipped forward in a lightning-fast motion. The ball shot off his boot like a missile, curving unnaturally. The spin was wild, the strike loud, the pain obvious—but David didn’t show it.

In the box, Cristiano Ronaldo rose above two Palace defenders like he had springs in his boots.

And met it.

Bang.

Goal.

Ronaldo wheeled away, shouting "Suuuuuu!" as he sprinted toward the sideline, arms wide, teammates chasing him like a pack of wolves.

The bench exploded. Staff, subs, coaches—all jumped and yelled.

Except Ten Hag.

He just stood there. His jaw clenched. His eyes didn’t move.

The assistant coach turned to him, grinning ear to ear. "Coach, come on! We’re back in it!"

But Ten Hag didn’t answer.

The assistant followed his gaze.

Ten Hag’s eyes were locked on David Jones. Number 19.

And they weren’t filled with joy.

They were filled with fire.