Carrington was unusually quiet.
Not empty — far from it. Groundskeepers mowed perfect stripes into the training pitches. Academy kids cracked jokes as they juggled footballs. Coaches huddled with clipboards, pretending to look busy. But in the air, there was a new kind of tension — tight, electric, almost nervous.
Because Ellie Greenwood had arrived.
And everyone knew she wasn't here to make friends.
Ethan Cross shifted nervously by the reception desk, adjusting his United jacket for the fifth time. His reflection in the glass door showed someone who didn't feel like the owner of the biggest club in England.
"She's just a football executive," he muttered. "Not the Terminator. You've survived Klopp hugs. You've survived Jamie Carragher's saliva attacks. This is fine."
The receptionist gave him a look usually reserved for mental patients.
Then — woosh — the glass doors parted, and Ellie Greenwood strode in like she was walking into a hostile takeover.
Black coat sharp enough to slice butter. Smart shoes clacking crisply. A tablet tucked under one arm, a coffee cup clenched like a weapon in the other. Her expression? A mixture of "I'm here to fix your incompetent football club" and "I will stab your excuses with this stylus."
"You're late," she said coolly, nodding to the clock.
Ethan blinked. "I thought I was early?"
"I was earlier."
She didn't break stride. Barely glanced at him. Already surveying the entrance like she was mentally gutting the place.
He hurried after her, clearing his throat. "Uh, Ethan Cross. Welcome to Manchester United."
She didn't slow down.
Instead, she paused at the digital squad depth board and stabbed her stylus at it.
"First question: why is Brandon Williams still listed as backup left-back?"
Ethan hesitated. "Nostalgia?"
She arched an eyebrow so sharply he thought he might bleed.
"Fix it," she said.
It wasn't a suggestion. It was a direct order.
Across Carrington, whispers were already flying faster than Rashford on a counterattack.
"That's the Greenwood woman, isn't it?"
"Yeah. Ex-City, ran their academy restructuring."
"Didn't she also work with Ajax?"
"Yeah. And Bayern. And rumor is, she made a director cry at Leipzig."
"No way."
"Swear down. Bloke tried to mansplain scouting analytics and she shut him down with a pie chart."
The younger staffers were split — half terrified, half strangely excited.
"Honestly," said one, peeking out from behind a vending machine, "I think she's the best signing we've made in ten years."
By the time Ethan and Ibrahim — his right-hand man and director of operations — sat down in the strategy room, the mood had shifted into outright fear.
Ellie stood in front of a giant touchscreen filled with messy charts, outdated scouting reports, and player data spreadsheets from the Stone Age.
She clicked through horrifying slide after horrifying slide.
"Your recruitment system," she said crisply, "is a tragicomedy."
Ibrahim tried to defend them. "We have priorities—"
"You have chaos," Ellie interrupted. "And 'vibes' are not a talent ID strategy."
She paced, tapping her stylus on the screen.
"You've got a 400-page dossier on a Paraguayan winger who retired two years ago… but nothing on Leeds United's current U21 captain. Nothing on Brighton's emerging left-back. Nothing recent on European U17 tournaments."
Ethan tried to look knowledgeable. "I think we had someone assigned to youth tournaments?"
"You did," Ellie said. "He last submitted a report three years ago. It was handwritten."
Ethan groaned.
Ibrahim covered his face.
Ellie stabbed a button, flipping to another slide.
"And your analytics department thinks 'expected goals' is something you pray for."
The air was heavy with humiliation.
Ellie turned to Ethan, pinning him with her gaze.
"What's your plan to fix it?"
Ethan opened his mouth. Closed it.
"Coffee?" he offered weakly.
For the first time all day, Ellie smirked — the tiniest curve of her lips.
"Later," she said. "First we kill nostalgia."
As they walked toward another meeting, a middle-aged staffer — clipboard tucked under his arm — sauntered past.
"Morning, boss," he said lazily to Ethan, completely ignoring Ellie.
Wrong move.
Ellie stopped cold.
"Excuse me," she said, voice like a scalpel. "Can you tell me the last five players you scouted personally?"
The man stammered. "Uh, well, I've been… updating spreadsheets…"
"Players," Ellie repeated.
"Uh… Greenwood? Uh, Mason, I mean. And, uh… Pogba?"
Ellie blinked slowly.
"Mason hasn't been at this club for two years. Pogba plays for Juventus."
The man flushed red.
Ellie smiled thinly. "Good news: you now have more time for spreadsheets. You're being reassigned. Effective immediately."
She turned on her heel without waiting for a response.
Ethan jogged to catch up.
"You just fired him?"
"Reassigned," she corrected.
"But—"
"Deadwood burns," Ellie said simply.
For a second, Ethan just stared at her.
Then he grinned despite himself.
He was genuinely scared.
And he liked it.
Later that afternoon, the entire football operations team gathered in a semi-circle for staff introductions.
Ethan gave a polite, vaguely inspiring speech that lasted approximately ninety seconds before surrendering the floor.
Ellie stood there, arms folded, looking like she was ready to conduct a military tribunal.
"I don't do motivational speeches," she said. "We're not here to look good on LinkedIn. We're here to win. Efficiently. Ruthlessly. With vision."
She let the silence settle.
"If that makes you uncomfortable," she added, "Indeed.com is hiring remote dog groomers."
A few stifled giggles escaped the younger analysts.
Ellie caught them and allowed a microscopic smile.
"Good. You have humor. You'll need it."
From the back, Ibrahim leaned toward Ethan.
"She's scary."
Ethan nodded. "Terrifying."
Ibrahim elbowed him. "You're grinning."
"I know," Ethan admitted.
Later, as the sun dipped below the Carrington skyline, Ellie remained perched at the edge of Ethan's office desk, tablet in hand, still building the early skeleton of a new club structure.
Ethan sipped his fifth tea of the day, feeling his stomach twist.
"First impressions?" he asked.
"About you or the club?" Ellie replied, eyes still on her tablet.
"Uh… the club."
"A dilapidated Ferrari," she said. "Still beautiful. Still powerful. But left to rot by owners who thought waxing the paint was enough."
Ethan exhaled. "Not wrong."
Outside the office window, Marcus Rashford and Kobbie Mainoo were still doing extra shooting drills, the field bathed in gold from the setting sun.
"You've got raw material," Ellie said, almost to herself. "But you need a system. A culture."
"Can you build that?" Ethan asked.
Ellie smiled — not a soft smile, but a sharp one.
"I already am."
There was a long pause.
"You don't smile much, do you?" Ethan asked, more lightly than he intended.
Ellie glanced at him, her expression unreadable.
"Smile when the work's done," she said. "Not before."
For some reason, that made Ethan's heart hammer in his chest.
They walked toward the staff parking lot in silence, Carrington slowly emptying around them.
"You know," Ethan said, hands shoved in his pockets, "most people ease into a new job."
"I don't," Ellie replied flatly.
She opened her car door, paused, and turned toward him again.
"You've got a mess," she said. "A big one."
Ethan nodded, biting back the obvious.
"But," she added, and there was a glint in her eye now, "I've cleaned worse."
She studied him for a moment longer, like she was assessing whether he would survive what was coming.
"And I don't work with idiots," she said finally.
Then, without waiting for a response, she slid into her car and drove off, taillights vanishing into the twilight.
Ethan stood there, wind ruffling his hair, watching her leave.
Beside him, Ibrahim munched on a protein bar, looking unimpressed.
"Was that a compliment?"
"I… think so?"
"Should you be scared?"
Ethan grinned, heart racing, a strange fire building inside him.
"Definitely."
Because Manchester United might finally have the cavalry arriving.
And her name was Ellie Greenwood.