Carrington's conference room smelled of fresh coffee, marker pens, and silent judgment.
Ethan sat at the head of the long oak table, a thick notebook in front of him, next to a growing pile of water bottles. His black hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, hair a mess, eyes sharp.
Across from him, Erik ten Hag, dressed like a man preparing to dismantle an army, tapped a pen steadily against the table.
On the screen behind them:
"SQUAD ASSESSMENT: IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED"
Names filled the lists. Some underlined in green. Some ominously crossed out in red.
Today wasn't about dreams. It was about decisions.
The Harsh Realities
Ten Hag clicked the remote.
First slide: Martial.
"Fitness unreliable. Attitude poor. Contribution inconsistent," Ten Hag said bluntly.
Ethan sighed. "I've seen houseplants with better work rate."
Ellie, sitting at the laptop taking minutes, chuckled under her breath.
"We've tried selling him for two summers," Ten Hag added. "No buyers."
"Maybe we should start offering a free set of steak knives with him?" Ethan deadpanned.
Even Ten Hag, usually dead serious, cracked a tiny smile.
But jokes aside, the task was brutal.
Antony. Maguire. Van de Beek. McTominay. Dean Henderson.
Some players still had potential elsewhere. Some needed a fresh start.
Some… Ethan wouldn't wish on his worst enemies.
It wasn't just a clear-out.
It was surgery.
Painful. Necessary.
Agent Wars Begin
The first call was scheduled for 10:00 AM sharp.
Martial's agent — a sharp-tongued Parisian with an ego bigger than the Eiffel Tower — dialed in via Zoom.
Ethan sat forward as the screen flickered on.
The agent smiled thinly. "Ah, Monsieur Cross. A pleasure. May I first say, Anthony loves Manchester. He wishes only to… how you say… re-express himself here."
Ethan blinked. "By 'express,' do you mean 'play well' or 'sulk in the physio room for six months'?"
Silence.
Ten Hag coughed, suspiciously close to a laugh.
The agent pressed on, ignoring the jab.
"But, naturally, if he is not 'appreciated,' we must discuss compensation. Anthony is a very marketable player. We would require full wages paid until end of contract."
Ethan leaned back in his chair, folded his arms.
"Let me be clear," he said. "Anthony can go wherever he likes. Walk. Cycle. Hang-glide. But if he stays, he's playing under my terms. If not, we'll help him find a club that actually wants him."
The agent frowned. "You insult my client."
"You insult my intelligence."
Click. Ethan ended the call.
Ellie raised an eyebrow. "Subtle diplomacy, boss."
Ethan grinned. "I majored in sarcasm."
The Strategy Meeting
By noon, the trio sat around, scribbling names onto the whiteboard.
Stay and fight: Rashford, Bruno, Martinez, Varane, Garnacho, Mainoo.
Sell if good offer: Maguire, McTominay, Henderson, Fred.
Immediate exit: Martial, Van de Beek, Antony (if possible), Telles, Bailly.
It wasn't just about dumping players.
It was about building the future.
"We need energy. Hunger. Players who still dream about football, not Instagram followers," Ten Hag said firmly.
Ethan nodded. "And leaders. Not just prima donnas who need four spa days after 90 minutes."
He underlined Rashford's name twice.
"Marcus can be the heartbeat," Ethan said. "Local lad. Feels it. Bleeds it."
"Agreed," Ten Hag said. "And we must support him. Build something he can lead."
Plans started forming:
A new defensive midfielder — one who could actually tackle without getting booked every match.
A right winger — who didn't treat every match like a freestyle YouTube video.
A proper striker — the missing piece for too long.
The excitement buzzed in the room like electricity.
They weren't just fixing mistakes.
They were rebuilding Manchester United's soul.
Unexpected Visitors
Just as they wrapped the meeting, Bruno Fernandes popped his head in.
"Meeting about selling me?" he joked, mock-hurt.
Ethan grinned. "Only if someone offers us Cristiano Ronaldo levels of money and a lifetime supply of Nando's."
Bruno laughed and stepped inside, followed by Rashford and Martinez.
The players had sensed the shift in the club — and wanted in.
"We're ready," Rashford said, voice firm. "Whatever you need. However you want us to lead."
Martinez, always the pitbull, added, "Just tell us who needs kicking first."
Ten Hag smiled approvingly. "It will take all of you."
Bruno clapped his hands together. "Well, I already broke Garnacho's ankle in training by accident yesterday, so I'm halfway there."
They laughed, the tension lifting.
The gap between players and management — the distrust that had festered under the Glazers — was finally closing.
Now, they were building together.
The First Moves
That afternoon, Ethan authorized the first wave of agent contacts:
Loan offers for Henderson and Bailly.
Discounted sales for Telles and Van de Beek.
Initial feelers for a shock bid on Antony — hoping a desperate Saudi club might bite.
It wasn't pretty work.
Negotiations involved groveling agents, unreasonable demands, and tabloid leaks about 'unhappy stars.'
Ethan didn't care.
"We're not a retirement home," he told Ellie as he signed the documents. "We're Manchester bloody United."
Ellie nodded. "And if they don't like it?"
He smiled darkly.
"They can join Martial on the couch."
A Promise to Keep
Late that night, as Ethan sat alone in his Old Trafford office — still furnished like a Glazer showpiece, still stinking of fake prestige — he scribbled two words across a fresh notepad.
"No Passengers."
It wasn't just a slogan.
It was a promise.
To himself.
To Rashford, Bruno, Mainoo.
To the fans.
Manchester United wouldn't settle for survival anymore.
They would rise — or they would die trying.
And Ethan Cross, a nobody who grew up singing United chants in a tiny flat, would make damn sure of it.
He leaned back in his chair, staring out at the dark pitch, the Theater of Dreams sleeping under the stars.
"Time to wake you up," he whispered.