**8:02 AM – Carrington Training Ground**
The morning mist swirled across the pristine pitches as Ethan stepped out of his modest Toyota, the crunch of gravel underfoot unnaturally loud in the eerie quiet. The training complex - usually alive with shouts, laughter and the thud of balls against boots - felt like a morgue. Groundskeepers moved with silent efficiency, their leaf blowers the only sound cutting through the damp air.
Ethan's breath formed small clouds as he surveyed the fractured landscape before him:
Near the far goal, Rashford, Varane and McTominay stood in a tight triangle, their conversation intense and private. Rashford's hands moved in sharp gestures while Varane nodded solemnly, his brow furrowed. McTominay kept glancing over his shoulder like a soldier checking for threats.
By the benches, Bruno held court with Eriksen and Antony, his body language closed off. The Portuguese star's usual animated demeanor had been replaced by something colder, more calculating. Even from twenty yards away, Ethan could see the tension in his jawline.
Sancho trained alone at the edge of the pitch, his expensive headphones flashing blue as they pumped out whatever angry soundtrack matched his mood. His footwork was sharper than usual, each touch of the ball carrying extra venom.
The coaching staff weren't immune either. First-team coach Eric Ramsay shot Ethan wary glances between drills, while set-piece specialist Benni McCarthy pointedly looked everywhere but at his new boss. Only the youth team coaches seemed unaffected, their high-pitched instructions to the academy players cutting through the tension.
A lone magpie landed on the crossbar of an empty goal, tilting its head as if studying the fractured dynamics below.
---
### **THE MOLE HUNT**
**10:15 AM – Ethan's Temporary Office**
The small, windowless office they'd grudgingly assigned him reeked of stale coffee and industrial-strength cleaner. Ethan spread the leaked documents across the chipped Formica desk, each marked with fluorescent sticky notes bearing names of staff with access.
Danny perched precariously on the windowsill, squinting at security logs on a tablet. "Could be bloody anyone," he muttered, tapping the screen. "The Glazers have had eighteen years to plant loyalists in every department from the laundry room to the boardroom."
Ethan's phone buzzed with an anonymous text:
*"Check security logs. 3:17 AM last night. Admin office. Follow the money."*
The grainy black-and-white footage showed a shadowy figure slipping into the administrative wing with practiced ease. The timestamp blinked 03:17:24. The person moved with purpose, their gait oddly familiar despite the poor resolution - a slight limp in the right leg, perhaps from an old injury?
"Someone's playing both sides," Ethan murmured, zooming in until the pixels blurred. The figure wore a United hoodie - the standard issue given to all staff, impossible to trace.
Danny whistled low. "That walk... reminds me of someone. Can't place it though."
---
### **THE MEDIA WAR**
**12:30 PM – Online Storm Erupts**
Ethan's phone began vibrating uncontrollably on the desk, dancing toward the edge as notifications flooded in:
🚨 *"Dressing Room Divided: Players Split Over Cross's Leadership"* - The Athletic
📰 *"Club Sources: New Owner 'In Way Over His Head'"* - Daily Mail
💣 *"Fernandes 'Furious' Over Leaked Tactics Documents"* - ESPN FC
Each article quoted unnamed "club insiders" and "players close to the situation." The Athletic piece included damning details about private team meetings only players would know. The Mail focused on Ethan's supposed mismanagement of transfer funds. ESPN's piece quoted a "senior player" saying tactics had been leaked to opponents.
Rashford's call came through as Ethan was reading the third damning article:
"It's absolute bullshit," Rashford hissed, his voice tight with anger. "No one's said any of this. Someone's feeding them lies."
In the background, Ethan could hear the echo of the training ground and what sounded like Bruno arguing vehemently in Portuguese with someone - likely his agent, given the words "cláusula" and "contrato" cutting through.
---
### **THE BOARDROOM BACKSTAB**
**3:47 PM – Emergency Board Meeting**
The executive boardroom smelled of lemon polish and the cloying scent of Richard Arnold's expensive cologne. The CEO sat stiffly at the head of the twenty-foot mahogany table, his manicured fingers steepled before him. He slid a thick dossier across the polished surface without meeting Ethan's eyes.
"The owners have called for a confidence vote," Arnold said, his voice carefully neutral but his left eyelid twitching slightly. "They believe your position has become... untenable."
Ethan flipped open the folder. Inside was a meticulously compiled list of "missteps" complete with timestamps and supporting evidence:
- The Nando's voucher incident (with screenshots of the DM conversation)
- The leaked Haaland documents (highlighted in yellow with margin notes)
- "Alienating key players through amateurish conduct" (including quotes from unnamed staff)
The final page stopped Ethan cold - a signed letter on official club letterhead from Bruno Fernandes expressing "serious concerns about the current leadership's ability to take the club forward." The signature looked chillingly authentic.
Arnold cleared his throat. "The vote will be held in 72 hours. I suggest you use the time to... prepare your case."
Outside, the first drops of rain began pattering against the floor-to-ceiling windows, streaking the view of Manchester's skyline.
---
### **THE PLAYERS' MEETING**
**6:30 PM – Empty Dressing Room**
The locker room smelled of sweat, deep heat and the faint metallic tang of blood from some forgotten cut. Rashford, Varane and McTominay sat waiting on the wooden benches, their faces grim in the harsh fluorescent light.
"Bruno didn't write that," Rashford said immediately, his hands clenched around a half-empty water bottle that crackled under the pressure. "He's pissed, yeah, but not like that. Not official-letter pissed."
Varane nodded slowly, his long fingers tapping a rhythm against his knee. "It's a setup. But someone close to us is feeding them information. Things only players would know."
McTominay, usually so reserved, slammed his locker shut with sudden violence. "It's doing my head in. Can't trust anyone."
As if on cue, there was a faint scuffling sound outside the door - the telltale squeak of rubber soles on tile. Ethan moved quickly, yanking the door open to reveal:
Jim, the longtime kit man, frozen mid-step with one hand pressed to an earpiece, his phone's recording app clearly visible and running. The older man's weathered face went pale beneath his United cap.
"Jim?!" Ethan stared at the man who'd been a fixture at Carrington for decades - who'd tied his boots when he was just a kid at academy days.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Jim turned and bolted down the corridor with surprising speed, his work boots squeaking on the tiled floor, a set of locker keys clattering to the ground in his wake.
---