**3:47 AM – Manchester, England**
Ethan Cross was losing an argument about xG statistics to a teenager on Reddit when his life changed forever.
The glow from his battered laptop illuminated the damp patches on his studio flat's ceiling. Outside, the Manchester rain fell in sheets, rattling against the single-glazed window like an angry midfielder demanding a transfer. His blog—*Red or Dead: The Rants of a Hopeless United Fan*—boasted seventeen monthly readers, and tonight's post ("10 Reasons Our Midfield Is Worse Than My Love Life") had attracted its usual thoughtful commentary:
**@TrueDevil91:** *Useless plastic. Glazers out!*
**@Mum:** *Sweetheart, Tesco are hiring night shift...*
Ethan rubbed his tired eyes. The microwave clock blinked **3:47 AM**. Beside his laptop sat the remnants of dinner—a Pot Noodle with suspiciously few noodles, and a can of supermarket lager that had gone warm hours ago.
*This is fine,* he told himself. *Just another thrilling night in the life of a failed football writer.*
Then—**PING.**
An email notification.
**Subject:** *URGENT: Regarding Your Inheritance*
Ethan snorted. *Inheritance?* The only thing his family had ever passed down was a genetic predisposition to balding and an unhealthy obsession with Manchester United.
Still, he clicked it.
---
### **THE EMAIL THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING**
**To:** Ethan Cross
**From:** Harrington & Wells Solicitors
**Subject:** URGENT: Regarding Your Inheritance
*Dear Mr. Cross,*
*We regret to inform you of the passing of your uncle, Sir Reginald "Reg" Whitmore. As his sole beneficiary, you are entitled to his entire estate, including properties, investments, and liquid assets, with a current valuation of approximately...*
Ethan's eyes locked onto the number.
**£2.47 billion.**
His fingers twitched. His breath hitched. The half-eaten Pot Noodle toppled off the desk with a wet *splat*.
*This has to be a scam.*
But then his phone rang.
---
### **48 HOURS LATER – MAYFAIR OFFICE**
The offices of **Harrington & Wells** smelled like old money, leather-bound books, and the faintest hint of cigar smoke embedded deep within the mahogany paneling.
Ethan sat in a chair that probably cost more than his entire flat, wearing his *least* wrinkled shirt (which still had a ketchup stain near the collar). Across from him, **Mr. Harrington**, a silver-haired solicitor with the demeanor of a disappointed headmaster, adjusted his cufflinks and slid a thick envelope across the desk.
"Your uncle insisted you read this first," he said, his voice crisp and polished.
Ethan's fingers trembled as he unfolded the heavy, cream-colored stationery.
---
### **THE LETTER**
> *Ethan,*
>
> *If you're reading this, I've kicked the bucket. Surprise—you've got a rich uncle!*
>
> *But here's the real shocker: I'm Reg Whitmore. Former United director during the Ferguson years. Saw you at the '08 Champions League final in Moscow—only kid in our section who didn't cry when Terry slipped. Knew then you had the right madness in you.*
>
> *The money's yours on one condition: Buy United. Properly. No hedge fund bollocks. No corporate leeches. Save our club or die trying.*
>
> *P.S. The Glazers don't know about our connection. Keep it that way.*
>
> *- Reg*
Ethan's vision blurred. His chest tightened.
*This couldn't be real.*
But then Mr. Harrington gestured to the wall behind him, where framed black-and-white photos hung in perfect alignment.
There, staring back at him, was **Sir Alex Ferguson shaking hands with a younger version of the man Ethan had only ever known as "Uncle Reg,"** the mysterious family friend who'd taken him to matches as a kid before vanishing when Ethan turned twelve.
And in one photo, **Ethan himself—no older than eight—grinning in a United kit, standing between Beckham and his uncle.**
His stomach dropped.
*This was real.*
Mr. Harrington cleared his throat. "There's also this."
He produced a faded red scarf—the **1999 Treble commemorative edition.** Ethan's fingers traced the fabric, his throat tightening. He'd had one just like it as a kid, before his dad donated it to a charity shop during the divorce.
The solicitor's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then back at Ethan.
"Ah. Your first billion just cleared."
He said it like he was commenting on the weather.
---
### **THE RAILWAY PUB, OLD TRAFFORD**
The Railway Pub was the kind of place where the beer was cheap, the carpets were sticky, and the air was thick with the collective despair of match-going fans.
Ethan sat in the corner booth, nursing a pint while Danny—his best mate since primary school—stared at him like he'd just announced he was joining the Taliban.
"Let me get this straight," Danny said slowly, his fingers tightening around his glass. "Your *secret sugar uncle*—who you haven't seen since you were a kid—just left you **two and a half billion quid**... to buy *them*?"
He jerked his thumb toward the pub window, where **Old Trafford loomed in the distance**, its towering stands illuminated under the floodlights. On the TV above the bar, United were getting dismantled by Bournemouth.
Ethan nodded numbly.
Danny exhaled sharply. "You realize you're about to negotiate with the **Glazers**, right? The same vampires who made **Ed Woodward** look like Father Christmas?"
On screen, a Bournemouth player nutmegged United's captain. The pub erupted in groans. Someone threw a bag of pork scratchings at the TV.
Ethan watched as the camera cut to **Roy Keane** in the Sky Sports studio, his face a thundercloud of barely contained rage. Their eyes met through the screen like some twisted omen.
His phone buzzed. A Twitter notification:
**@Carra23:** *Heard some TikTok kid wants to buy United? Might as well let my nan have a go! #BanterEra*
Danny smirked. "Welcome to the big leagues, Mr. Owner."
As the final whistle blew—**0-3 to Bournemouth**—Ethan made a decision.
He pulled out his phone, opened Google, and typed:
***"How to buy a football club."***
Then immediately regretted everything.
---