When Ethan Cross woke up, the first thing he saw was his phone vibrating on the nightstand like it was having a seizure.
Twenty-three missed calls. Forty-seven new notifications. And one very unflattering photo of him, mouth open mid-sneeze, slapped onto the front page of The Daily Pulse.
"CHAOS AT CARRINGTON: UNITED'S NEW OWNER SPARKS WITCH HUNT"
The subheadline didn't help:
Sources claim mass paranoia, staff walkouts, and "a 25-year-old madman with a God complex."
"…Well," Ethan muttered groggily, "at least they got my age right."
10:01 AM – Carrington, PR Crisis Room
The media war room had been repurposed from a disused tactics lounge. Now it was ground zero for Ethan's reputation rehab. Monitors blared pundit takes, Twitter feeds scrolled like apocalypse stock tickers, and Lucy Benton—head of club media—paced like a caffeinated lioness.
"Okay," Lucy said, waving a tablet like a weapon, "we have talk show hosts calling it Carrington-gate. Someone on TikTok made an edit of you with Darth Vader breathing. And The Athletic ran a thinkpiece titled 'Ethan Cross: Visionary or Rich Idiot?'"
"Why not both?" Ibrahim quipped from the back, sipping chamomile tea like a monk watching Rome burn.
Ethan dropped into a chair, buried his face in his hands, then peeked up.
"Okay. Honest question. On a scale from 'slightly spicy' to 'full-on PR arson,' where are we?"
"Somewhere between 'Elon buys Twitter' and 'Prince Andrew interview.'" Lucy didn't blink. "You've got 4 hours to win back the narrative."
"Perfect," Ethan said. "Plenty of time to ruin everything."
12:45 PM – Gilmore's Redemption Tour, Live on Sky Sports
On a massive screen behind them, Anthony Gilmore appeared in soft lighting, wearing a turtleneck and an expression that said I definitely practiced this in the mirror.
"I only ever wanted what was best for Manchester United," Gilmore said solemnly. "But in this new regime… dissent is treated like treason."
Lucy scoffed. "He's giving hostage victim meets Shakespearean villain. Someone get this man an Oscar."
Ibrahim leaned in. "You see his hand twitch? That's guilt. Or caffeine withdrawal."
Ethan was too busy fake-gagging into a coffee cup to respond.
2:00 PM – Live Press Conference, Old Trafford Media Room
The room was packed. Journalists lined every row. Social media interns hovered by walls. Microphones looked like they were about to multiply.
Ethan stepped up to the podium in a plain black blazer. No notes. No script. Just conviction—and a faint whiff of nerves.
"Let me be clear," he began. "I didn't buy Manchester United to turn it into a playground. I bought it to rebuild it. From the inside out. That means fixing problems people were too comfortable to confront."
A hand shot up.
"Is it true you're running a vendetta against former Glazer employees?"
"I'm running a vendetta against mediocrity," Ethan replied. "If people feel attacked by that, they might want to self-reflect."
Another hand.
"Do you regret firing Anthony Gilmore?"
"I regret not double-checking the locks on our analytics servers before he started moonlighting as Edward Snowden."
Muffled laughter.
One journalist near the back stood. "Are you worried about losing the dressing room?"
"I'm not trying to control the dressing room," Ethan said, holding eye contact. "I'm trying to make sure the rot outside it doesn't spread into it. Footballers don't need soap opera scripts. They need clarity, direction, and a club that backs them without leaking headlines every time someone sneezes during training."
He paused. Then grinned.
"Speaking of sneezing—great photo this morning, by the way. Big thanks to The Daily Pulse. Caught me mid-allergy and everything."
More laughter. Some genuine.
He walked off the stage to a soft buzz of murmurs. Headlines were already being rewritten.
4:30 PM – Club Offices, Post-Presser Debrief
Lucy tossed a packet of notes onto the table. "You're officially trending again. But in a good way this time."
"'Molting season' line's gone viral," Ibrahim added. "Even Neville retweeted it."
Ethan blinked. "Wait, Gary Neville? Retweeted me?"
Lucy nodded. "With the caption: 'Finally someone with backbone in the boardroom.'"
Ethan grinned. "I guess that's as close as I'll get to being knighted."
"Careful," said Ibrahim. "Next thing you know, you'll be doing Monday Night Football with Keane."
Ethan paled. "Pass. I like my limbs unbroken."
8:15 PM – Ethan's Apartment
The city sparkled beneath the glass. Somewhere in the distance, the roar of traffic mixed with the low hum of Friday night anticipation.
Ethan sipped tea—his idea of celebrating a partial PR win.
His phone buzzed.
A message. Unknown number again.
"Cute speech. But the dressing room's not yours yet. And the real players? They're not on the pitch."
Ethan locked the phone.
Outside, the rain had started to fall.
Inside, he smiled faintly.
"Let them come."