The Manchester United dorms are tucked away in the northeast corner of Old Trafford Stadium. From the outside, the building looks sleek and modern, but step inside, and it's like walking into a 1990s sports academy dorm—functional, no frills.
The four-person dorm lacks private bathrooms, and Claire, who failed to meet the weight requirement during a fitness test, was forced to stay behind by the coaching staff.
Up at the crack of dawn, a shirtless Claire carried a basin filled with brand-new toiletries. If any women were around, they'd probably squeal at the sight of his chiseled pecs and abs. A towel hung around his neck as he hummed an unfamiliar tune, swaying his way toward the communal washroom.
If a reporter were here, they'd probably liken Claire's basin-carrying strut to the relaxed vibe of a retired Beijing grandpa.
The younger players in the youth training camp were shocked to see Claire there—he was the only first-team Manchester United player living in the youth dorms. A small, gutsy kid mustered the courage to greet him, asking, "Why're you back here?"
"Didn't pass yesterday's fitness test," Claire replied, rubbing his sleepy eyes. "Coach told me to warm up early this morning. I'm on the matchday squad this afternoon." With that, he shuffled off to wash up.
The youth players watched him go, envy in their eyes. Claire was one of the most successful graduates of their academy system. Well, "one of" might be generous—he was the standout, the only one who'd been loaned out and returned to play for United.
After freshening up, Claire, still rubbing his slightly swollen eyes, hit the pitch. Seeing Cristiano Ronaldo already drenched in sweat didn't exactly fill him with pride for his early start.
"Back-to-back games, and you're never tired?" Claire asked.
"Nah, I'm not like you gifted types," Ronaldo shot back. "If I slack off, it'll take me several high-intensity games to get my form back." Ronaldo wasn't surprised to see Claire—he was his training partner for the morning.
Claire gave Ronaldo a helpless thumbs-up but didn't say more, focusing instead on warming up along the edge of the field. Nearby, the U17 squad was doing their warm-up drills, and with their chatter in the background, the two started their own session.
"Wanna come to Portugal with me for the 12-day break?" Ronaldo asked. "Oh, wait, I forgot—you were basically on vacation the entire first half of the season."
Ronaldo's jab left Claire with an awkward grimace, black lines practically forming on his forehead. Thankfully, after a sarcastic pep talk from Sir Alex Ferguson the day before, Claire's skin was a tad thicker. Brushing it off, he snatched the ball from Ronaldo's feet and sprinted toward the halfway line.
Ronaldo, caught off guard by the steal, froze for a second before chasing after his cheeky teammate, ready to teach the cocky youngster a lesson.
By the time the rest of United's first team arrived, Claire and Ronaldo were already stretching in the Old Trafford stands. Park Ji-sung, ever the gossip, sidled up. "What, you dumped Jessica Jung already? Good thing the paparazzi only caught you dropping that girl off at her hotel. If they'd spun it as 'late-night party, hotel sleepover,' you'd be dodging Jessica's wrath and a beating from Fergie."
Park's gossip was like his homeland—nosy and relentless, with a bite if you let your guard down. Claire, never one to indulge busybodies, didn't hesitate. He aimed a swift kick at Park's backside. If Park hadn't scampered off, Claire's foot might've left him wincing for hours.
Catching his breath, Ronaldo glanced at a Wall Street Journal Park handed him. "Your website's worth $700 million out of nowhere?" he asked, baffled.
"Yeah, well, Google was gonna invest, but they backed out," Claire said casually. "Luckily, Goldman Sachs and Merrill Lynch stepped in, so it's not the end of the world."
Ronaldo's envious look gave Claire, who usually felt a bit overshadowed by him, a rare chance to flex. Reading Ronaldo's lips—"When's my CR7 brand getting investors?"—Claire couldn't resist adding, "If things keep going well, I might just become Britain's youngest billionaire."
"No way you're going public," Park scoffed from behind. "Your site barely has traffic. If it weren't for me and Ronaldo hyping it up for free, you'd have nothing!"
Claire spun around, firing back, "Tch, you'll see. Give me a few days, and you'll all be eating my site's traffic dividends!"
Park shot him a skeptical look, but Ronaldo, now chilling with Ferdinand, was already scheming about how to make their afternoon opponents, Newcastle United, "cry their way home."
Speaking of Newcastle, their coach, Glenn Roeder, wasn't exactly setting the world alight. It's not that he'd done nothing since taking over, but with a tight budget and a squad full of aging veterans, he couldn't exactly work miracles. Tinkering with tactics was about all he could do.
If Newcastle's previous season was decent, this one was a disaster. Hammered by the league's big dogs, they'd been ground into the dirt. To sum up their season in one word: awful.
As warm-ups wrapped up, Sir Alex Ferguson encouraged the players to relax. When Rooney joined Claire and Ronaldo, the trio's little group became a magnet for the rest of the squad. At first, the chatter was normal, but when Park whipped out a thick stack of newspapers, the focus shifted to Claire.
"Big star like you, of course you're into models," someone teased. "How was that one from the other night?"
"Is your website really worth that much?"
"What's up with your uncle's team? Are we gonna have to babysit those rookies for free?"
Claire's head spun from the barrage of questions. Thankfully, Park, ever the busybody, fielded them all, answering with flair and shutting down doubts like a pro.
"Oh, and tomorrow we're playing a friendly against your uncle's team," Ferdinand piped up, eyes glinting. "Any chance we can get some extra cash for that?"
Every player turned to Claire, even Rooney, who usually played it cool, staring with starry-eyed anticipation.
"Oh, there's money," Claire said, grinning. "If all goes well, it'll be a lot. I'm not bragging, but Leam Valley Stadium's already got its first tax-free project. If you're cool with it, I can hang your signed jerseys and personalized footballs in the duty-free shop. The moment you step into Leam Valley, everything you're wearing is merchandise. After the match, we'll auction off whatever you want to sell to the fans."
Ronaldo watched Claire gesticulate wildly from the stands, wondering if it was his imagination or if Claire's eyes actually sparkled when he talked about money.
"What about Malcolm Glazer? He okay with this?" someone asked.
"Of course," Claire replied. "He'll pay your agents for the auctioned items. After taxes, you'll pocket 60% of the profits."
Ferdinand grumbled, "What a skinflint," earning a stifled laugh from Claire, who'd coined the nickname "Skinflint Malcolm" in the first place.
"Any rules about playing time?" Rooney asked.
"Nope, your call," Claire assured him earnestly. "Even if you're on the bench, just be there."
Rooney's face relaxed. With United's key players juggling the Premier League, Champions League, and occasional extra matches, a low-stakes friendly was a relief. Claire's uncle, Dennis Irwin, had even pulled strings to secure a friendly against last season's Championship side, Southampton, whose aging owner was eager to partner with the deep-pocketed Irwin for some much-needed cash.
As the group's excitement for the Leam Valley friendly grew, the conversation buzzed with anticipation.
---
Old Trafford, a title contender this season, was a madhouse whenever its gates opened. Fans and spectators poured in like a tidal wave.
In the Newcastle locker room, striker Michael Owen leaned against the window, gazing enviously at the roaring Old Trafford crowd. "If only our stadium could be this alive," he sighed.
"If you could sing and get people to love it, I bet St. James' Park would have 10,000 fans chanting your name," Emre Belözoğlu said, equally wistful, from behind him.
In stark contrast to Newcastle's glum locker room, Manchester United's MUTV studio was electric. The big boss, "Skinflint Malcolm," sat gleaming with energy, fielding questions from Lucy Pinder.
"Fans are worried about the fitness of United's key players for this match against Newcastle," Lucy said, dressed in sharp, urban-chic black. "As the owner, what's your take?"
Lucy, who'd risen to MUTV's top presenter in just half a season—partly due to her rumored connection with Claire—was a surprise to many. But it wasn't Claire's influence that got her there; it was Malcolm Glazer's call.
As Claire's popularity soared, Glazer thought he could turn Claire's music fans into United supporters. But when Claire was banned, ticket sales tanked. Except for the Christmas blockbuster, attendance dropped to a mere 75%—decent for the league, but not for Glazer, who'd tasted the sweet fruit of sellouts.
Realizing Claire's value, Glazer made a snap decision at a board meeting to promote Lucy, whose rumored link to Claire was tabloid gold.
"For this match, I personally checked with Sir Alex," Glazer said. "To ensure our key players are rested, we've put Claire Lee on the squad list and Park Ji-sung too. This way, we rotate our stars while giving bench players more minutes."
"Even with the 12-day break coming up, Ronaldo and Rooney won't play full matches. To make United stronger, we need to toughen up the whole squad."
Lucy's lips twitched, barely hiding her amusement. She knew United's ways too well to fall for Glazer's showboating, but he was her boss. Putting on a fangirl grin, she peppered him with flattery for the MUTV cameras.
Glazer ate it up, nodding smugly. As he left, he tossed out, "If you were American, I'd have you commentating for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers!"