**7:52 PM - The Lowry Hotel Lobby**
Ethan's left shoe squeaked with every other step as he crossed the marble-floored lobby, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceilings. The concierge had eyed his off-the-rack suit with the polite disdain reserved for lottery winners and footballers' cousins. He adjusted his United crest lapel pin - a last-minute addition he hoped would read "serious owner" rather than "overexcited fan."
His phone buzzed. Danny's latest text:
**"If he offers you a drink, check for poison. If he offers you a contract, check for poison AND hidden clauses about your firstborn child."**
The elevator doors opened silently. As they ascended, Ethan caught his reflection in the polished brass - his hastily gelled hair already rebelling at the temples, a faint ketchup stain on his collar he hadn't noticed before. The elevator music switched abruptly from jazz to "Glory Glory Man United." Ethan wasn't sure if this was an omen or just Manchester's idea of a joke.
---
**8:03 PM - Penthouse Suite**
The doors opened directly into a living room larger than Ethan's entire apartment building. Joel Glazer stood silhouetted against floor-to-ceiling windows, the Manchester skyline twinkling behind him like a spreadsheet of unpaid debts. The scent of leather and expensive cigars hung thick in the air.
"Ethan." Joel didn't turn around. His voice carried the quiet confidence of a man who'd never had to argue with a cabbie about fares. "I'd say 'make yourself at home,' but we both know you wouldn't know what to do with it."
A crystal tumbler sat on the coffee table, the ice cubes melting into what smelled like fifty-year-old Scotch. Ethan remained standing, his fingers brushing against the dossier in his inside pocket - Fergie's "insurance policy" delivered by courier just an hour earlier.
Joel finally turned, his smile as genuine as a £5 Rolex. "That little performance today... amateur hour, but cute."
"Performance?" Ethan perched on the edge of an armchair that probably cost more than United's entire youth team budget. "I was just sharing fascinating club trivia. Like how our head physio makes less than City's third-string goalkeeper. Or how the women's team shares kits with the U12s."
Joel's knuckles whitened around his glass. He slid a single sheet of heavy-bond paper across the table. "Revised offer. Seven billion. We retain 10%. And you sign this... understanding regarding recent communications."
Ethan scanned the document. Clause 4B might as well have been printed in neon: *"Party A agrees to never disclose that Party B totally leaked those emails."* His phone buzzed - a text from Fergie:
**"He's sweating. Ask about Singapore 2018."**
Ethan looked up. "How are those Singapore loans performing, Joel? The ones from 2018? The... what was it... three hundred million with questionable collateral?"
The ice in Joel's drink clinked violently. "I don't know what you're—"
"Funny," Ethan continued, channeling every legal drama he'd ever watched at 2 AM, "because the paperwork I have says otherwise. And the Premier League's new ownership committee would find that... what's the word... problematic."
---
**10:17 PM - Carrington Parking Lot**
The Range Rover's headlights cut through the mist like runway lights as Rashford rolled down his window. The smell of Deep Heat and citrus cologne wafted out. "Get in. And wipe your feet."
Ethan slid into the passenger seat, the cold leather creaking under him. The dashboard display showed the time - 22:17 - and an alarming number of unread messages from "Mum."
"Let me guess," Ethan said as they rolled toward the training complex. "The lads have drawn straws to see who gets to murder me?"
"Not all of them." Rashford's hands flexed on the wheel. "Bruno's still pissed about the TikTok comment. Varane thinks you're a 'dangerous amateur.' But Donny..."
"Donny hates me?"
"Donny doesn't think about you at all."
The players' lounge was lit by a single flickering fluorescent light. The squad sat in a loose circle, their shadows stretching long across the walls. Varane spoke first, his French accent sharper than usual:
"We took a vote."
Ethan's stomach dropped into his still-squeaky shoes. "And?"
"Seven think you're in over your head," Bruno said, arms crossed so tightly his United tattoo distorted. "Three abstained because they 'don't do politics.' The rest..." He shrugged. "...remember what the Glazers did to Rooney."
Sancho, uncharacteristically serious, leaned forward. His diamond earrings caught the light. "Prove you're different."
"How?"
Rashford grinned. "Cancel the noodle sponsorship."
Ethan choked. "But that's twenty million pounds!"
Twenty pairs of eyes - some skeptical, some hopeful, some just tired - stared back without blinking.
"...Done."
---
**11:47 PM - Ethan's Flat**
Reg's files covered every surface - spread across the kitchen counter, the fold-out coffee table, even the top of the malfunctioning fridge. Danny squinted at a particularly dense financial document through pizza grease-smudged glasses. "This is either evidence of industrial-scale money laundering or the worst Excel work I've ever seen."
Fergie's voice crackled through the speakerphone, competing with the hum of Ethan's ancient laptop: "Check the 2020 transfer committee notes. Bottom drawer."
Ethan's fingers found the file - a single sheet marked **CONFIDENTIAL** in angry red letters. At the bottom, four damning words: *"Vetoed - commercial conflicts. Haaland."*
Danny whistled. "They blocked signing Haaland because of noodle sponsorships?"
"Not just blocked." Ethan turned the page to reveal meeting minutes. "They told the fans it was 'sporting reasons' while taking a payoff from Raiola."
Fergie's voice turned gravelly: "That's your nuclear option."
Ethan stared at the document, then at his laptop. One email to the Premier League's integrity committee and the Glazers were finished. His finger hovered over the send button.
Then he remembered **Fergie's Rule #3**, scrawled on a napkin now pinned to his fridge: *"Never fire all your bullets at once."*
He attached just the Haaland document, typed a subject line ("URGENT: PL Integrity Matter"), and—