The Next Big Thing
Chapter 185: Caught

Chapter 185: Caught

The roar was thunderous.

Old Trafford, that mighty fortress, shook to its core as the net rippled. The equalizer had landed.

GOAL!

The two commentators practically screamed into the microphones, their voices cracking as emotion exploded through the stadium speakers.

"GOAL! GOAL! MANCHESTER UNITED HAVE DONE IT!"

"THEY’VE EQUALISED! IT’S 2-2 HERE AT OLD TRAFFORD!"

The stands stood empty, rows of red seats echoing with the ghosts of a million fans, but the energy—the emotion—still pulsed like a living thing. On the field and from the commentary box, the sound surged. It wasn’t just a goal—it was resurrection. It was rage, belief, history, and pride all rolled into one sonic boom of a moment.

On the pitch, Manchester United players were in a frenzy. Arms around each other, they sprinted toward the corner flag.

Cristiano Ronaldo led the charge. The legend. The icon. The man who, even at 37, could still turn a stadium into a cathedral. As he slid to the corner, the entire team followed like pilgrims to a shrine.

"SUIIIIII!!!" he roared as he leapt and twisted mid-air, arms wide in his signature celebration. Though the seats were empty, it echoed. It didn’t just fill the stadium—it filled the world watching from afar.

But one man—one man alone—didn’t move.

Erik ten Hag stood rooted on the sideline.

Arms folded. Lips pressed together so tight they were almost white. His eyes didn’t follow Ronaldo. They didn’t watch the players hugging. They didn’t look at the technical staff clapping.

No.

His eyes were fixed on the pitch, but not on the goal scorer.

They were locked, unblinking, on David Jones. More specifically—David’s left leg.

His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscle on his cheek twitched. His neck was stiff. Every tendon looked like it was straining against his skin. His body, though upright, was shaking—not from cold or nerves.

From fury.

His assistant coach, startled by his stillness, nudged him. "Boss? Boss, we’ve equalised! That’s Ronaldo! That’s—"

Ten Hag didn’t even look at him. Through gritted teeth, his voice venomous, he said two words.

"Ready the sub."

The assistant blinked. "You sure?"

"Tell the ref. Now." Ten Hag’s tone wasn’t loud, but it carried the kind of weight that silenced entire rooms. His face looked like it was carved in granite, but his eyes—they burned.

David stood just past the halfway line, hands on his knees. Sweat dripped down his forehead and trailed along his cheekbones. His chest heaved like a boxer between rounds. His lungs screamed. His legs trembled, not from fear but exhaustion.

He had run. He had fought. And he had assisted—twice.

He looked up at the scoreboard.

2 - 2.

David let out a small laugh, breathless and stunned. He was still bent slightly over, hands on his shorts, but the edges of a grin tugged at his lips.

"Two assists," he whispered to himself. "Two bloody assists."

His eyes flicked to the sky. Thank you. Thank you. He wasn’t sure who he was thanking—God, fate, the ghosts of Old Trafford? It didn’t matter. It felt right.

He hadn’t even joined the celebration. He was too drained, too overwhelmed. He just stood there, basking in the madness like someone caught in the eye of a storm.

Then he heard it.

A whistle.

Not the restart whistle.

A different one.

Heads turned. The pitch fell quiet for half a second—just enough for everyone to hear it. The fourth official was stepping forward, holding something in his hand.

The electronic substitution board.

David frowned, blinking through sweat as the glowing numbers lit up.

In: 36. Out: 49.

That was... him.

His stomach dropped.

"What?" he muttered, stepping back instinctively.

The board flashed again.

SUBSTITUTION - MANCHESTER UNITED.

Even without fans in the stadium, the air felt tense.

Then came the voice of the commentator.

"Well now, what’s this? Ten Hag making a change immediately after the equaliser."

"David Jones is coming off! That’s a surprise! The 16-year-old has been one of United’s brightest sparks this second half. Two assists. What a debut. But Ten Hag’s seen enough."

"Maybe he’s protecting the kid. Maybe it’s fitness. Or... maybe it’s something else."

David stood frozen, his mind racing.

Why?

Why now?

He wasn’t injured. He was tired—yes, sure—but he could go on. He had more in him. His heart was beating like a drum, but it hadn’t stopped.

He looked toward the bench and saw Ten Hag still standing there. Still angry. Still staring. Their eyes locked for a single second, and David saw it.

That look.

Like fire behind glass.

David dragged his feet toward the touchline, a storm boiling behind his tired eyes. Every step felt like a betrayal. The adrenaline that had kept him standing moments ago was now replaced by something heavier—anger, disbelief, and an ache in his chest that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

Antony was already waiting at the sideline, bouncing lightly on his toes, eager to get into the action. As David reached him, there was a brief moment of contact—Antony offered him a dap, casual and quick. David returned it, barely. His face was tight, jaw locked, the fire in his chest beginning to spill into his limbs.

He didn’t even glance at the fourth official. Didn’t look at the assistant referee or at the substitution board still glowing behind him. His eyes were locked ahead.

On Ten Hag.

The manager stood unmoving, arms crossed, eyes still glued to the pitch as if nothing had happened. His face was made of stone. No nod. No clap. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

David didn’t care.

At least not yet.

He stomped past the sideline and walked directly toward the coaching area. The assistant coach stepped forward immediately, a water bottle in one hand, the other reaching out in instinctive encouragement.

"Good job out th—"

"Gaffer, why?" David cut in, voice low but sharp, confused frustration bleeding through.

He hadn’t even finished the sentence when Ten Hag spoke.

Still not looking at him.

His voice was low—flat and coiled like a whip waiting to crack.

"David. Go to the back."

There was no emotion. No warmth. Just cold command.

David froze mid-step.

What?

He blinked, unsure if he had heard right. The back? He wanted to ask. The locker room? Why? Wasn’t he supposed to stay on the bench? Support the team? Watch how it ended?

But before he could say a word—before the confusion turned into protest—Ten Hag’s voice sliced through again. A shade darker. Controlled fury underneath every syllable.

"And put some ice on your leg."

The manager’s eyes still hadn’t moved from the field.

"We’ll talk about this after the match."

David opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Talk? Talk about what?

His heart was pounding in his ears again. His stomach felt hollow. His fingers twitched at his sides, like they needed something to hold on to. But there was nothing—no comfort, no explanation, not even eye contact.

The assistant coach, who had tried to hand him the water bottle, slowly lowered it. The tension in the air was thick, choking. He didn’t say another word.

David turned slowly, walking away, but his mind wasn’t moving with his body. He felt weightless, disoriented.

The equalizer.

The two assists.

The euphoria.

Now replaced by silence. Cold, heavy silence.

Each step away from the pitch echoed louder in his head. Behind him, the game raged on. But to David, it felt distant—like he was walking underwater, sounds muffled, movements slow.

He didn’t understand.

He didn’t know what he’d done wrong.

And as he passed the tunnel, the lights of the stadium behind him, the words Ten Hag had said began ringing louder.

"Put some ice on your leg."

"We’ll talk about this after the match."

His throat tightened.

The cold of the corridor welcomed him like a stranger.

And all he could think was:

What just happened?

David walked down the tunnel, shoulders tense, fists clenched loosely at his sides. He didn’t even mind that he’d been sent to the locker room anymore. Not really. At least, that’s what he told himself.

But his thoughts were spiraling.

"Go to the back."

"Put some ice on your leg."

The words echoed in his skull like distant thunder, ominous and unrelenting.

What did he see?What does he mean?David winced slightly as he walked. His left leg throbbed now that the rush of adrenaline was wearing off. It wasn’t pain, exactly—not yet—but there was a tightness there, deep and sharp. He’d felt it during that last sprint, right before the second assist. Just a twinge. He’d ignored it. Pushed through. There was no way Ten Hag could have noticed. Right?

He couldn’t have known. I didn’t show it. I didn’t limp. I didn’t stop. I assisted twice.

His heart rate picked up again, not from exertion this time—but anxiety. Fear, even. He hated that he felt it. But it was there, gnawing at the edges of his confidence.

By the time he reached the locker room door, his head was buzzing. He shoved it open and stepped inside.

Empty.

Silent.

The hum of fluorescent lights above. The soft click of the automatic door as it sealed behind him. The faintest echo of cheers and chants seeping in from the pitch far behind.

He moved toward the bench slowly, his breathing heavy. He dropped onto the seat with a grunt—and winced.

The discomfort in his leg flared again. Not unbearable, but enough to make him lean slightly to the side, adjusting his weight. He peeled his sock down gently and pressed his fingers along the inside of his calf.

It was tender.

Tighter than it should be.

Nothing torn, small swelling. Not over the top. But the muscle felt like it had been pulled taut to its breaking point.

He exhaled sharply, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

He can’t know.

There’s no way he knows.

David shook his head. The more he tried to convince himself, the less certain he became.

Then his eyes flicked toward the wall-mounted screen in the corner. A small flat TV, muted but displaying the match. He squinted at it, watching the blur of red and blue shirts dart across the screen. It sounded hollow now.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. The sting in his leg made him shift again.

Then—

The locker room door creaked open behind him.

David’s head snapped up.

Footsteps. Two sets. Steady, rubber soles squeaking faintly against the tiled floor.

Two figures entered. Medical staff. United kits. One had a clipboard in hand, the other carried a small black bag. No nonsense.

David sat up straighter, trying to hide the surprise—and the growing dread in his chest.

The taller of the two looked up from the clipboard.

"David Jones, right?"

David blinked, slow and wary. "Yeah..."

The staff member gave a short nod.

"The coach sent us. Said we should check out your leg."

Silence.

A beat passed.

David’s throat went dry. His eyes widened slightly.

His stomach dropped.

Shit.

Shit shit shit—

He knows.

The thought rang like an alarm bell in his head. Deafening. Everything else muted around it.

His heart thumped like a war drum, pounding so loudly it nearly drowned out the buzz of the overhead lights.

He couldn’t breathe.

I’m fucked.