The Manchester United manager’s office.
David Moyes sat at his desk, staring blankly at the team sheet in front of him.
He was having a brutal time.
United was on the verge of Champions League elimination after losing 2-0 away to Olympiacos in the Round of 16.
They had just suffered an embarrassing 3-0 home defeat to Liverpool in the league, dropping them to seventh in the table.
They had been knocked out of the FA Cup early, and dumped out of the League Cup semifinal on penalties by Sunderland.
In his very first season, the reigning Premier League champions were staring down a year without silverware, and likely without Champions League qualification.
Fans were willing to give a new manager time.
They were not willing to accept dropping out of the Champions League.
United was now at genuine risk of missing out on European football entirely.
In two days, on March 19th, they would host Olympiacos in the second leg.
Fail to overturn the deficit, and they were out.
A week after that, they would host Manchester City.
Another brutal test.
Lose that, and a top-four finish became nearly impossible.
Champions League qualification was the absolute floor the board had set.
Miss it, and he was sacked.
He needed to turn things around in Europe.
And he needed to beat City in the league.
Winning the Champions League guaranteed qualification.
Finishing in the top four did the same.
Those were his two lifelines.
Winning was the only option left.
Keeping communication open with the board mattered, too.
He needed to reassure them he controlled the squad and that the locker room stood behind him.
He made a point of talking with CEO Ed Woodward almost every day.
Privately, he couldn’t stand the man.
He thought Woodward was a clown.
Back when Sir Alex Ferguson had handpicked Moyes as manager, Woodward had just been appointed the club’s executive vice-chairman.
Woodward had confidently told him, “Name any player you want, and it’s as good as done. Simple as pressing a button.”
Moyes asked for Gareth Bale or to bring back Cristiano Ronaldo.
Neither happened.
In the end, Woodward bought Marouane Fellaini on transfer deadline day in September.
Because Manchester United had moved too slowly and allowed his £23.5 million release clause to expire, they ended up paying £27.5 million—several million pounds over his original buyout fee.
While Fellaini wasn’t a bad player, he ultimately wasn’t the elite difference-maker a title-winning squad needed.
Moyes never got the star he asked for.
He never got the center-back he wanted.
He never got Cesc Fàbregas or Ander Herrera.
An entire summer window had gone to waste.
By the winter window, he still couldn’t land Fredy Guarín, the midfield powerhouse he wanted from Inter Milan.
In a blind panic for creativity, Woodward bought Juan Mata, the league’s top assist provider.
Woodward didn’t understand football.
He didn’t understand how a manager’s specific tactical needs mattered.
United had suffered its worst start in decades, and Woodward carried the blame for the transfer disaster.
Juan Mata simply didn’t fit Moyes’s system.
Moyes was trying to build a stronger version of Everton at Old Trafford.
His midfield needed physical presence and box-to-box power.
His flanks needed wingers who were fast, physically dominant, and explosive.
For a classic number ten like Mata or Shinji Kagawa, Wayne Rooney already occupied that space.
But he couldn’t buy Mata for a club-record fee and bench him, and he couldn’t discard Kagawa given his popularity.
He tried playing them out wide, Kagawa on the left and Mata on the right.
It was awkward.
Kagawa liked cutting inside to dictate play.
Mata liked cutting inside to do the exact same thing.
They both drifted into the middle, joining Rooney in the same congested patch of grass.
It completely neutered United’s attacking width.
That was what got Adnan Januzaj promoted.
Moyes had sent his assistant, Steve Round, to the academy to scout for a winger who fit the system.
Two names had made the final cut: Januzaj from the U21s, and Marcus Rashford from the U16s.
Rashford was faster, but given his age, Moyes and Round settled on Januzaj.
Januzaj hadn’t disappointed.
He had bailed the team out multiple times.
He was one of the few bright spots of Moyes’s miserable tenure.
Credit where it was due, Moyes was willing to trust young talent.
Rooney, Ross Barkley, and John Stones back at Everton.
Januzaj here.
Who is going to step up for me this time?
Moyes looked down at the paper.
It was his projected starting lineup against Olympiacos.
Any United fan who saw it would probably have a stroke.
Sitting in defensive midfield was a forty-year-old Ryan Giggs.
Fellaini, Darren Fletcher, Kagawa, and Mata were nowhere on the sheet.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in.”
Steve Round walked into the office.
Moyes frowned.
“Steve. What took you so long?”
“David, your scout wasn’t in his office,” Round said, closing the door behind him.
“He wandered off to watch United’s U18s play a scrimmage against the U16s.”
Moyes paused.
The scout must have gone to watch Rashford.
Rashford had lost out to Januzaj for the winger spot earlier in the year, but the kid was a massive talent.
“Was Rashford outstanding?”
“Of course. But some of the U16 lads completely outplayed the older boys.” Round smiled slightly.
“David, guess the final score? 2-1. United’s U18s only clawed the win back at the end because the U16 lads ran completely out of gas.”
Moyes’s eyes widened.
U18s against a U16 side.
Semi-professionals against kids.
And they only scraped a one-goal win because the other side collapsed from exhaustion?
“That’s impossible. Whatever Rashford is like, he’s still just one striker,” Moyes said.
“David, that’s exactly why I said the best player on the pitch wasn’t him.” Round set his tablet down on Moyes’s desk and pulled up the match footage.
Five minutes in, Moyes leaned forward.
Ten minutes in, he didn’t blink.
When Moyes saw Joe Rothwell, a player good enough to start for the U21 side, beaten by an elegant, ghost-like turn, he clapped a hand over his mouth.
When Moyes saw the slender midfielder pick out Tosin Kehinde lurking at the far post off a corner, he sat back heavily in his chair.
“Genius.”
“Yes, David. Our academy just produced another talent on Rashford’s level. He dictates the tempo perfectly. He’s Carrington’s own Xavi.” Round was practically vibrating with excitement.
Moyes had only caught the highlights, but he could see it clearly.
The U18 side had brought a terrifying level of intensity to the match.
He could see it through the first 70 minutes.
In the last 20, almost everyone on the U16 side was completely gassed.
In the 80th minute, the U18 side equalized, eventually completing the comeback 2-1.
“Rashford is better suited to high-intensity football than we gave him credit for,” Moyes said, staring at the frozen frame of the video.
“We should have promoted him and Januzaj together.”
“David, it’s not too late. You’re Sir Alex’s handpicked successor. You have time left here. It will come good.”
Moyes didn’t answer.
He looked back down at the team sheet on his desk.
Was Giggs really the right call at defensive midfield for a must-win Champions League night?
He had spent all summer begging for Fàbregas.
What he had just stumbled onto looked more like Xavi.
Just one who was far too young.
Then again, Rooney had scored in the Premier League at sixteen.
“David?” Round asked.
Moyes looked up, his jaw set.
“Steve. Promote Rashford and Tomás Eusébio Ferreira to the first team. Have them report to senior training tomorrow morning.”
Round blinked.
“Isn’t this a bit hasty?”
Six months ago, Moyes had wanted to promote Rashford, but Round had talked him out of it, arguing that rushing young players could ruin them.
“We don’t have the luxury of time anymore, Steve.”
Round stared at him.
He sighed and nodded.
“Understood, David.”
This was why Moyes played young players.
It wasn’t idealism.
It was pure, desperate necessity.
Ed Woodward’s Office.
Tomás sat at the heavy oak desk, holding a club-branded pen.
He forced a stiff, slightly terrified smile for the cameras.
Signing his professional contract right after the match—that was how big a deal this was.
Cameras clicked.
Flashes went off.
Tomás exhaled slowly as the club photographers finally lowered their lenses.
“Tomás, congratulations,” Woodward said, extending a hand, a polished smile on his face.
“From today, you’re a Manchester United professional.”
“Thank you. To you, and the club.” Tomás shook his hand firmly.
Whatever the fans and pundits said about Woodward’s football knowledge, the man was ruthlessly efficient in business.
He had handled the paperwork on the spot, getting Tomás signed the very same day.
Delaying it even a single day would have cost Nuno and Marta Ferreira another sleepless night.
Within minutes, Manchester United’s official website announced a three-year professional contract with Tomás Eusébio Ferreira, a seventeen-year-old Portuguese academy product.
The news instantly spread across Twitter.
“Who on earth is this guy?”
“Ha! Born and raised in Manchester and I had no idea we had a Portuguese kid in the academy.”
“A random Portuguese teenager? Is this another Bebé? Ed, this is Manchester United Football Club, not a Jorge Mendes PR agency!”
“Look at this club right now. Getting battered by Liverpool, crashing out of Europe, and Woodward is signing unknown kids to distract us. What an idiot.”
“Woodward out!”
“Glazers out!”
The reaction was almost entirely negative.
The fans were toxic, desperate for big-name signings to save the season, not an academy promotion.
When sports forums back in Portugal picked up the story, fans there were just as cynical.
“United signed another Portuguese player? Out of nowhere?”
“Who is Tomás Eusébio Ferreira?”
“This is definitely some shady agent favor. United is just stocking up on assets to loan out.”
“Maybe the thoughts their getting Eusébio descendant”
“Calling it now, United sells him to Braga or Sporting next year for five million just to balance the books.”
“Wait, is this the same kid who left that commentator speechless at the Liverpool match?”
“Well, United signed him, and now it’s our turn to be speechless.”
It was a flood of sarcasm.
Very few well-wishes cut through the noise of modern football Twitter.
Manchester.
“Michael, looks like we can head back to Liverpool,” Ian Graham said, closing his laptop.
Michael Edwards checked his phone and nodded, his shoulders slumping slightly as he read the United press release.
Woodward had moved too fast.
Liverpool never even got a chance to make a formal approach to the Ferreira family.
“Such a massive talent,” Edwards muttered, shaking his head.
“Real shame.”