Jeremy knew the template wasn't a magic wand.
He couldn't just become R9 overnight.
That was a daydream.
No, the template was a key. It unlocked his ceiling, making it sky-high.
It meant every drop of sweat, every suicide-sprint, every drill would count for double, maybe triple.
It was a tool to let him improve at a terrifying rate.
And honestly? Jeremy Ling was more than satisfied with that.
'Don't be greedy,' he thought, pulling on his training top.
'Countless people would kill for a second chance. I actually got one.'
A small thought flickered in his mind.
"Once my attributes hit their limit, can I break through them?"
He shook his head, pushing the thought away. "One thing at a time. Focus on the present. Make the first team before the season starts."
He quietly set his first goal.
With his new potential and a work ethic forged from ten years of regret, he knew he could establish himself here.
And this was the perfect time to do it.
This was Mourinho's second year.
The "Special One" was building a team of monsters.
Ibrahimović, Pogba, Lukaku... the dressing room was full of massive personalities and winners.
Mourinho had to use the youth too.
Last season, an injury crisis had ripped the team apart—seven players down.
And he still dragged them to a "small treble," winning the Europa League, Community Shield, and EFL Cup.
The man was a tactical genius.
This team was competitive. He could make his mark here.
Knock! Knock! KNOCK!
A frantic hammering on his door yanked him from his thoughts.
Jeremy pulled it open.
"Scott? You look like you've seen a ghost."
His roommate, Scott McTominay, was practically vibrating with anxiety, his lanky 190cm frame filling the doorway.
"Ling! How are you not dressed?!" Scott hissed. "He's here!"
"Who's here? The Queen?"
"The gaffer! Mourinho! He's coming to watch the youth team's training... today!"
Jeremy just smiled.
He remembered this Scott.
Before his massive growth spurt, he'd been a small, technical midfielder who got bullied constantly.
Jeremy had been the only one to stand up for him.
The height had come, but the anxious energy was clearly still there.
"So?" Jeremy said, flashing a bright smile as he playfully punched Scott's shoulder.
"Don't worry, don't worry."
He grabbed his bag. "Let's go. I've been ready."
"Ready?! It's Mourinho!" Scott sputtered, but Jeremy was already out the door, dragging his friend with him.
...
They arrived at the indoor training pitch, the walls lined with murals of club legends.
Best. Giggs. Scholes.
And newer ones.
Pogba. Rashford.
"Sigh... when will I ever get to be on that wall," McTominay muttered, staring at Rashford's painted face with pure envy.
"Getting impatient again, Scotty?" Jeremy patted his shoulder. "There's a saying back in my hometown: 'You have to eat rice one mouthful at a time.' You can't swallow the whole bowl. You'll get there. I believe it."
"Oh... well, thanks for that." McTominay gave him a strange look.
Something about his best friend felt... different today.
Calmer. More confident.
'Forget it', Scott thought. 'Too much to think about...'
They walked onto the pitch and saw him.
José Mourinho.
Standing on the sideline, arms crossed, face like thunder.
They both froze.
They were on time, but seeing him there... it felt like they were late.
They immediately quickened their pace, jogging over to the rest of the squad.
The "Special One" hated lateness.
If training was at 10 AM, you were there at 9:55 AM.
It was the baseline for professionalism.
Mourinho's cold eyes glanced over the new arrivals.
He looked down at his watch. Then, he gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
Jeremy and Scott both quietly let out a breath they hadn't realized they were holding.
The morning training was straightforward.
Warm-ups, short passes, long passes, and then shooting drills.
A ball was fizzed across the ground to Jeremy.
He took one touch to set it, then met the ball on the half-volley.
BOOM!
The sound echoed in the training hall.
The ball exploded off his foot, a white cannonball streaking for the top left corner of the goal.
Manchester United's U21 keeper, Dean Henderson, reacted on pure instinct, launching himself in a full-stretch dive.
He got a fingertip to it.
It wasn't enough.
The power was too immense; the ball thudded off his glove and rocketed into the back of the net.
On the sideline, Mourinho's head, which had been down, lifted.
His eyes narrowed.
'Interesting...'
As one of the world's top coaches, he saw the details.
The kid's shooting technique was flawless. Thigh driving the calf, a perfect, violent transfer of power.
He knew the kid.
Jeremy Ling.
Main left winger for the U21s.
He'd originally planned to promote him to the first team this year, give him a contract.
But... Mourinho's face soured.
He didn't have time for projects. He needed players for now.
His winger situation was a constant headache.
Martial had all the talent in the world but was infuriatingly inconsistent.
Lingard would run through a brick wall for him but only shone in brief flashes.
Mata was a creative genius who lacked the speed and dribbling to play wide.
And Ashley Young was always one hamstring tweak away from the treatment table.
He was looking at Lemar. At Sánchez. At Mahrez.
He needed a finished product.
But... that strike.
That was not a project. That was power.
Mourinho kept watching, his expression unreadable.
Soon, the basic drills ended.
The assistant coach blew his whistle.
"Alright, lads! Vests on. Red team, white team. Full pitch. Let's go!"
This wasn't a drill. This was an audition.
Jeremy pulled on a white vest, sharing a look with McTominay, who was on his team.
Every player on the pitch knew this was their chance.
Statistics said only 0.1% of academy players ever made it. This was that 0.1% moment.
The whistle blew.
Team A (Red) immediately took control.
Angel Gomes, Nani's cousin, was a blur of feints.
The 17-year-old prodigy collected the ball in midfield, shifted his weight, and danced past the first defender.
The white team's midfield was torn apart.
McTominay charged in, intending to use his physical advantage to body Gomes off the ball.
But Gomes was too clever.
He saw the run and, just before Scott arrived, chipped a beautiful long pass to the right flank.
Mitchell controlled it smoothly, drove to the byline, and whipped in a high cross.
The striker got in front of his man and headed the ball firmly into the net.
1-0, Team A.
The Red team players high-fived, but they all snuck a nervous glance at the sideline.
Mourinho's expression hadn't changed one bit.
He just stared.
Seeing them celebrate, he almost looked... bored.
The Red team's small celebration died instantly.
The ball was reset at the center circle.
Jeremy jogged over to McTominay.
"Scott," he said, his voice low and intense. "Next time you get the ball in midfield, don't even think. Look wide for me. Just get me the ball."
"Uh... right. No problem." McTominay scratched his head.
This was a new Jeremy.
And he wasn't sure what to make of it.