The Next Big Thing
Chapter 97: Watching his new team

Chapter 97: Watching his new team

David Jones walked forward, albeit awkwardly, leaning on his crutches, his left leg wrapped securely in a cast. But nothing—not even an injury—could dampen his mood. He had been waiting for this day for as long as he could remember, and now that it was finally here, he wasn’t going to let a broken leg slow him down.

"Hey, come on! We’re going to be late!" he shouted at the man behind him, who was struggling to haul multiple suitcases from the cab, huffing and puffing as if he had just run a marathon.

Jonathan, his agent, groaned loudly, shooting him an exasperated look that could have melted steel. "Why do you even have this much luggage? Didn’t you say you’d buy new clothes when you got here?"

David shrugged, his excitement barely contained. He bounced slightly on his good leg, a grin spreading across his face. "Yeah, but until then—" He waved off the question impatiently as if the answer was too obvious to waste breath on. "Look, let’s just go. The match is about to start, and I don’t want to miss it."

He turned back toward the massive stadium ahead, his heart pounding as his eyes landed on the bold, glowing red letters:

OLD TRAFFORD.

His grin widened, stretching so much that his cheeks ached. This was his third time here, but each visit had carried a different weight, a different significance.

The first had been with his dad, as a wide-eyed kid in the stands, staring in awe at the sea of red, chanting fans, and the legendary players who had once been just posters on his bedroom wall. The second, as an opponent, battling against United in the FA Cup final—a surreal, nerve-wracking experience that had left him equal parts exhilarated and heartbroken.

But this—this was different.

This time, he was walking in as a Manchester United player. His dream club. The team he had supported since he could barely walk.

The only thing that could have made this moment better was if he were walking in with his mom and dad instead of his slobby agent, who was still wrestling with the last suitcase.

Jonathan finally yanked it free and groaned, "What are we even doing here? Shouldn’t we be heading to your apartment first?"

David gave him a blank stare before replying, "I already asked Ole if I could come watch the match first. He said no problem. I’ll check out the apartment later." He smirked. "As for you... I have no idea why you’re even here, honestly."

Jonathan threw his hands up in frustration. "What? Weren’t you the one who told the cab driver to drop us here?"

David, unfazed, shot back, "Of course I did! Do you know how hard it was to find someone willing to drive me? I had to pay a thousand pounds, bro. No way I wasn’t making the most of it."

He shook his head, remembering the struggle. Just getting to Manchester had been a nightmare. With all the COVID restrictions, traveling felt like an extreme sport.

Jonathan groaned. "Well, I’m heading to the apartment. Good riddance."

David just shrugged as Jonathan began stuffing the suitcases back into the cab. Watching him struggle, a smirk spread across David’s face.

"Good luck with that. That just means you’ll have to pay him extra to take you there ahead of schedule."

He laughed, wobbling away on his crutches, grinning as he made his way toward the stadium.

Jonathan, muttering under his breath, shoved another bag into the trunk. "Fucking brat... Lucky I still need you."

Just then, the cab driver—a stocky Hispanic man—turned around and yelled, "Eyy, what are you doing? Why you loading back up? Where’s the kid?"

David, still grinning from the little chaos he’d just caused for his agent, made his way toward the stadium, his mind already on the match. The moment he saw the schedule, he had called Ole straight away, asking for permission to watch it. After confirming with the team and FA officials, Ole had given him the green light. Technically, he was a Manchester United player now, so he was allowed in.

As he approached the entrance, he spotted a single security guard standing at the front. Just one guy. Easy.

With the match about to start, he didn’t want to waste a second. He smiled, adjusting his stance on the crutches, and tried to walk past him casually—like he belonged there.

Except the guard didn’t move.

David adjusted his crutches, straightening up like he was about to give a grand speech. With all the confidence in the world, he took a step forward.

The guard barely looked at him. "Sorry, kid, fans aren’t allowed in."

David blinked. Oh, hell no. Déjà vu hit him like a truck. This was just like his first day at Derby—except back then, he at least had two working legs.

"I’m not a fan," David said, exasperated. "I’m a player."

The guard finally turned to him, giving him a once-over. His eyes dropped to David’s cast, then to his crutches. Then he burst out laughing. "A player? With one leg? You signing up for the Paralympics or what?"

David opened his mouth to argue, but right at that moment, the guard’s focus snapped back to the screen in his tiny booth. His face lit up.

"GOALLLLL!" he screamed, hands in the air like he’d just won the lottery.

David’s brain short-circuited. "Wait, wait, who scored?! Which player?! Was it United?!"

The guard turned to him with the most smug look David had ever seen. "If you wanted to know, maybe you should’ve stayed home and watched it on TV instead of limping over here like a lost puppy."

David clenched his jaw. Oh, this bastard.

"Mate, I’m literally a United player," he tried again, his patience wearing thin.

The guard snorted. "Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England. Now move along, Your Highness."

David was one second away from throwing his crutch at him. Instead, he took out his phone. If words wouldn’t work, maybe cold, hard proof would. He quickly searched for David Jones Fabrizio Romano, and up popped the transfer announcement.

"There!" David shoved the phone in the guard’s face. "See? Fabrizio himself confirmed it! You know Fabrizio Romano doesn’t lie."

The guard squinted at the screen like it was written in ancient hieroglyphics. He read the post. Then he frowned. Then he shrugged. "Could be fake."

David nearly choked. "FAKE?! IT’S LITERALLY FROM FABRIZIO ROMANO’S OFFICIAL ACCOUNT!"

The guard took another look. "Hmm. Looks real."

"Exactly—"

"Still doesn’t prove you’re that David Jones."

David inhaled sharply. He was going to lose his mind. He had one foot (well, one and a half) inside Old Trafford, and this clown was blocking his way.

"Alright," David muttered, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out his ID card, the standard one every British teenager had his Citizen Card . "See? My name’s on it!"

The guard examined it, nodding slowly. "Hmm. Could still be fake."

David’s eye twitched. "BRO."

The guard shrugged again, clearly enjoying himself. "Look, for all I know, you could just be some random David Jones trying to sneak in."

David threw his head back in frustration. "DO YOU THINK I BROKE MY LEG JUST TO SNEAK INTO A GAME?!"

The guard rubbed his chin. "Would be a pretty solid commitment to the bit."

David took a deep breath. Don’t lose it. Don’t lose it. Don’t—

He yanked out his phone again, scrolling fast. "Fine. You need more proof?

David pulled up a picture on his phone, shoving it into the guard’s hands before the man could even finish another dumb excuse.

"Look! That’s me with Derby County!"

The guard squinted at the screen. "Hmm..."

Before he could start another round of nonsense, David cut him off. "DUDE, that’s literally Wayne Rooney standing next to me! Are you seriously doubting Wayne freakin’ Rooney?"

The guard’s expression changed. He zoomed in on the image, eyes widening as he recognized the Manchester United legend. His mouth twitched. "Damn... you were actually telling the truth, kid."

David let out the longest, most dramatic sigh of relief. "Can I finally go in now?"

The guard scratched his head. "Yeah, yeah. Go ahead."

David didn’t waste another second. He wobbled off as fast as his crutches could carry him, grinning like an idiot.

Behind him, the guard called out, "Wait! Do you even know the way?"

David ignored him, determined to find his own path.

"And don’t you wanna know who scored?" the guard yelled again.

David still didn’t answer. He was this close to watching his first game as a Manchester United player.

...Except he had no idea where he was going.

After taking a few wrong turns, ending up in a janitor’s closet at one point, and accidentally scaring an old stadium staff member, he finally found an opening.

Stepping through, he was greeted by the roaring of the crowd and the breathtaking view of the pitch.

His eyes shot up to the scoreboard.

MANCHESTER UNITED 1 – MANCHESTER CITY 0

David clenched his fists, grinning like a madman. He made it.

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