“Chris, how are you?”
Manchester United’s Deputy Medical Director Steve McNally shook his head.
“A strained hip muscle, maybe a pelvic contusion. We’re looking at three to four weeks out.”
Three to four weeks.
David Moyes ran the schedule through his head.
March 19th, tomorrow’s Champions League home leg against Olympiacos.
March 22nd, away at tenth-placed West Ham.
March 25th, the rescheduled home fixture against Manchester City.
March 29th, Aston Villa at home.
Early April, United’s first Champions League quarter-final in years—assuming they could overcome the deficit tomorrow night.
The more he ran the numbers, the tighter his chest felt.
By the time Chris Smalling was back, Moyes might already be sacked.
Moyes’s expression darkened.
His closest supporters on the training pitch saw it and shifted uncomfortably.
Phil Jones and Smalling weren’t part of Moyes’s inner circle, but they weren’t old guard either.
Like Adnan Januzaj, they were viewed with suspicion by the players who considered themselves the true heirs of the club.
Smalling and Jones were consummate professionals; they were just trying to survive at United.
They didn’t lean on either faction, and neither faction claimed them.
But as the conflict between the two sides deepened, their position shifted.
With trust in the veteran center-backs—and in Jonny Evans, as old guard as they came—eroding, Jones and Smalling had become a breath of fresh air.
They quickly earned the trust of a manager who had nobody else left to rely on.
Moyes had marked them as key men in his defense.
In a must-win match like this, Moyes and his staff didn’t dare trust the veterans or Evans.
Chris Smalling and Danny Welbeck both picking up knocks in a freak collision had blown a hole straight through Moyes’s training plans.
The morning’s pre-match session ended abruptly.
Moyes left the pitch in a hurry.
The injury made him feel like the walls were closing in.
Steve Round hurried after him.
“David, where are you going?”
“Sir Alex Ferguson’s house.”
Round’s eyes lit up.
“You are getting Sir Alex to Old Trafford tomorrow night to watch the comeback in person.”
It was fast thinking.
Get Sir Alex sitting in the stands, and every old-guard player on the pitch would fall in line.
“One step at a time,” Moyes said.
“What about this afternoon’s scrimmage?” Round asked.
“We still need a starting lineup.”
“Training goes ahead as planned. I’ll be back.”
Moyes kept walking.
Moyes was going to make sure of it, just in case.
Even in retirement, Sir Alex stayed busy.
If something kept him away from tomorrow night’s match, it might be the day Moyes got sacked.
Even setting Chris Smalling injury aside, Patrice Evra had stopped hiding his discontent.
Moyes had a feeling that, with Smalling injury as cover, people were about to make their move.
Speed mattered.
His instincts were right.
The moment Chris Smalling was taken off by ambulance and Moyes left, Ryan Giggs, Rio Ferdinand, and the rest of the senior leadership slipped away.
“If we head over now, it’ll be too late, Phil,” Giggs said.
“Did Gary already go to Ferguson’s place today?”
Phil Neville realized his brother had, once again, gone to Ferguson’s house to “learn how to be a good coach.” Studying?
He was obsessed with becoming United’s next manager.
Neville had to admire his brother’s nerve.
Otherwise, how had Gary ended up as team leader with so many big personalities in the room?
“Gary’s at Ferguson’s place right now,” Neville confirmed.
“Tell Gary to do whatever it takes. Get Ferguson convinced he doesn’t need to come to the match tomorrow night.”
Sir Alex’s estate sat in Cheshire.
Spring had arrived.
England’s assistant coach and former Manchester United captain, Gary Neville, was faithfully tending the gardens of his former manager’s house.
Neville’s phone buzzed.
He checked the message, and his eyes widened.
Moyes is getting sacked.
I’m going to be the next United manager.
“Gary, if you have somewhere to be, go on,” Sir Alex called out from the patio.
“Don’t waste your time on a retired old man.”
“Boss, you’re not old at all.” Neville put his phone away.
“We played for you and this club. It’s only right we’re out here mowing your lawn and planting your flowers now.”
Ferguson knew some of that was nonsense.
Still, it sounded nice.
Having someone attentive around was a small blessing.
This was one of “Ferguson’s boys,” someone he treated like a son.
“Boss, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but something big happened in Scotland recently,” Neville said, leaning on his rake.
“Oh?” Sir Alex looked at him, curious.
“Last night, someone spotted three aliens up in Scotland.”
“Huh?” Sir Alex’s eyebrows shot up.
“I heard there were three of them,” Neville continued, painting the picture.
“One was round and chubby, smoking a big pipe. One was short, like a Corsican. And the third had a full beard and deep-set eyes.”
“Churchill, Napoleon, and Lincoln!” Sir Alex stood up, gripping the railing.
Neville feigned surprise.
“Is that who it was? I heard the three of them raced horses across the night sky. The fat one fell off, and the short one won. The bearded one said it didn’t count since the fat one fell. So they agreed to race again tomorrow night.” Visit novelping(.)com for the full chapter.
“They’re really racing horses in Scotland again tomorrow night?” Sir Alex asked, leaning forward.
Then he frowned.
“Why tomorrow night?”
Neville smiled.
“No idea, Boss. Tomorrow night works fine though. If it were tonight, you would have missed it.”
Sir Alex nodded.
“Fair point.”
“Anyway, United’s match is probably heading for another loss,” Neville added, his tone shifting to concern.
“We lost to Liverpool at home last time. Seeing your face after that broke my heart. For your own health, I wouldn’t recommend watching United’s match tomorrow night. Your blood pressure has never been great, Boss. Maybe watch fewer United matches going forward.”
Sir Alex nodded slowly.
“Fair point.”
He spent the next ten minutes peppering Neville with questions about the aliens.
Neville held forth, embellishing the details.
Ferguson’s eyes brightened.
He almost wished he could fly to Scotland right then to catch Churchill, Napoleon, and Lincoln racing.
Carrington.
Whatever undercurrents were running through Manchester United right now, none of it had anything to do with Tomás.
“Tomás, you’re not coming to the canteen with us?”
“No, I have things to take care of.”
After training, Tomás watched Rashford from the corner of his eye.
Rashford watched Tomás right back.
They both turned down invitations to eat with the squad.
They walked out of Carrington one after the other.
Neither spoke the whole way.
The familiar mobile charity kitchen.
A familiar line of people.
“Tomás, Marcus, what’s going on with you two?”
They both looked up in surprise.
“Lucia!” Rashford’s posture straightened immediately at the sight of her.
Tomás offered a small smile.
“Lucia, didn’t expect you to be volunteering today.”
Lucia frowned.
She handed them their food, then pulled them off to the side, away from the line.
She planted her hands on her hips.
“What’s going on with you two today? Did somebody on the team give you trouble?”
Tomás and Rashford traded a look.
They stayed silent.
“Are you going to talk, or not?” Lucia demanded.
Rashford cracked under the glare.
He jumped to his feet, jabbed a finger at Tomás’s chest, and shouted, “You are the biggest idiot in the world!”