Was he really the biggest idiot in the world?
Tomás stared at Rashford’s pointing finger.
He hadn’t expected Marcus to actually think that.
Following his conscience and choosing David Moyes made him a fool?
Tomás didn’t think of himself as a fool.
And he still didn’t agree.
He carefully set his plate down, stood up, and met Rashford’s gaze.
“If doing the right thing makes me a fool, fine. Call me a fool.”
Rashford’s finger trembled.
“The right thing? Ha! You’re not just a fool, you’re a traitor! Do you get that right now, in everyone’s eyes, you’re siding with outsiders?”
“Marcus, call me stupid if you want,” Tomás said, his voice quiet.
“I’m not as smart as you, my people skills aren’t as good, I don’t have as many friends, and I’m not as quick with words. But I’m not a traitor. And he’s not an outsider. He’s Manchester United’s manager. Our boss. The man who promoted us to the first team.”
“He promoted us?” Rashford barked a laugh.
“Naive! You think that was out of kindness? For our sake? He used us. He used both of us to tell the fans calling for his head that he still has Manchester United blood in his squad. He used us to shut the fans up. To shut Sir Alex up!”
Rashford laughed again, shaking his head.
“United’s manager?” Rashford stepped closer.
“Fool! Not for much longer. And when he goes, you idiot, you’re going down with him. You’re never making it big here. Straight back to the youth ranks, out the door, and nobody left to protect you.”
Tomás blinked.
This was about his future.
Rashford wasn’t blaming him.
He was scared for him.
Tomás put himself in Marcus’s shoes.
Would he blame Rashford for standing against the manager like this?
No.
Not at all.
Moyes was in a weak spot.
If Moyes ever got too powerful, Tomás would worry about Rashford in exactly the same way, terrified he would be purged for it.
“What, nothing to say now?” Rashford demanded.
“You had plenty to say a second ago. Scared? Regretting it? Too late!”
Tomás didn’t argue back.
It was the first time they had landed on opposite sides of a choice.
The first ideological split between them.
But right now, their worry for each other outweighed the gap.
“Marcus, I’m not scared. And I don’t regret it.” Tomás stood his ground.
“After I graduated the academy, Coach Tom told me I was a qualified Red Devil. Then, I got promoted straight to the first team. So I put aside what I like, what I don’t, my ego, my personality. Because from the second Manchester United signed me to a professional contract, I became a Manchester United professional. Full stop. United professionals uphold United’s standard. What’s wrong with that? What’s there to be scared of? Why would I regret it?”
Rashford’s jaw clenched.
A harsh, bitter laugh scraped the back of his throat.
“That’s hilarious. You really think you’re the only one who bleeds for this badge? You haven’t played a single senior minute, and you’re lecturing me about the Red Devil spirit?”
He stepped closer, the frustration radiating off him.
“I walked through the Carrington doors when I was six years old, Tomás. Six! At thirteen, City, Chelsea, Liverpool… they all threw massive contracts at me. And I told them no. Without a second thought. Ten years I’ve broken my back on these pitches. A decade of my life!”
“Look me in the eye and tell me where I’m worse than Januzaj. Am I not good enough? Not loyal enough? Does he somehow care more about this shirt than I do?” Rashford dragged a trembling hand over his face.
“No. It’s just that I’m an academy lad. I’m Manchester born and bred. And for some reason, Moyes treats that like a handicap instead of a badge of honor.”
Rashford was shaking now, his voice thick and ragged.
He drew in a sharp breath.
“If Moyes had just backed me on ability six months ago, I’d be in the England squad right now. I’d be going to the World Cup in Brazil! Just like Owen at ’98. Just like Walcott. It was right there in my hands!”
He slammed a hand hard against his chest.
“But he wrecked it! For ten years, I was the undisputed best player my age in this country. Januzaj? What’s so special about him? United’s entire legacy was built by Sir Alex, the Class of ’92, and local lads like us. Academy kids!”
“And now Moyes treats us like we’re disposable. On what grounds, Tomás? Tell me! We gave this club our childhoods, our loyalty, our absolute everything. And what? We’re just supposed to smile, swallow this bullshit ‘spirit’ excuse, and let that manager sideline us for the rest of our careers?”
The air between them felt suffocating.
This wasn’t just a disagreement about playing time anymore; it was a total collision of beliefs.
David Moyes had become the dividing line—a savior to Tomás, but an absolute executioner to Marcus.
Rashford stared at him, his eyes burning with a desperate, furious kind of heartbreak.
“Look at it from my side, Tomás. If you were me… would you still choose Moyes?”
Tomás had nothing to say.
“But you…” Rashford’s voice cracked, the fiery anger suddenly giving way to a profound, bitter sense of betrayal.
“You’re supposed to be my brother. And you chose him.”
Tomás stared at him, the heavy silence stretching between them.
Looking at the raw, unfiltered fury in Marcus’s eyes, Tomás suddenly understood what Steve Round saw.
Marcus was too volatile, too emotionally invested, too unpredictable for the toxic, high-stakes pressure cooker of the first team right now. Read this novel at novelping dot com for the best experience.
But seeing the genuine heartbreak etched into his friend’s face, Tomás couldn’t tell if keeping Marcus in the academy was an act of protection, or a cruel punishment.
“Tom Martin?” Rashford sneered, spitting the youth coach’s name like poison.
“He’s even less qualified. What the hell does an outsider know about this badge? Does he understand United’s spirit like Ryan Giggs does? Have you completely blocked out how Martin treated you like absolute dirt for three years? He would rather start a hack like Palmer every week than give you a single honest look.”
Rashford took a step back, shaking his head in bitter disbelief.
“Only blind idiots like you and Scott McTominay hang on his every word. Scott is so stupid he nearly broke himself just to get pushed up to the U18s early…”
Tomás went blank.
He had never expected this.
This was what lived in the heart of his best friend.
In the mind of someone whose United blood ran purer than anyone’s, the Red Devil spirit looked this pathetic.
Something in Tomás came loose.
He wanted to argue, to say something back.
He found he couldn’t.
Right or wrong, everything Rashford just said was true.
Getting it all out seemed to extinguish the fire in Rashford.
The frantic energy drained away, leaving his face pale and drawn.
He looked at Tomás, his expression a complicated knot of lingering defiance and raw vulnerability.
“Ever since I was little, I knew this world wasn’t fair,” Rashford said, his voice dropping to a quiet, hollow rasp.
“My mum always prayed we’d just be happy, grateful little angels. But what happy angel goes to bed with his stomach growling every single night? What kid can be an angel when he’s constantly terrified of where his next meal is coming from?”
He stared past Tomás, lost in the memory.
“I used to wonder why we were starving, scraping by in lines at charity kitchens, while people on the other side of town had enough prime steak left over to feed their dogs. None of it made sense.”
Rashford swallowed hard, bringing his eyes back to Tomás.
“But I believe my mum. I will always believe her. She told me this world is fundamentally kind. So it has to be. And if the world itself isn’t broken…”
His voice hardened, a cold, bitter certainty settling over his features.
“…then it has to be the people in it who are destroying the fairness.”
He shook his head slowly.
“Tom Martin. David Moyes. They’re the exact same kind of people. They’re the ones ruining it.”
Tomás dropped his gaze.
He didn’t dare meet Marcus’s eyes.
“And just a minute ago, you stood there and tried to tell me those two are the ultimate symbol of the Red Devil spirit?” He shook his head, a cynical, bitter smile twisting his lips.
“It’s a sick joke, Tomás. Think about it. A pair of actual demons sitting at the top, and we’re just supposed to bow down to them in the name of the Red Devils.”
Rashford laughed.
Even as he laughed, tears ran down his face.
He hadn’t let his real feelings show like this before, not even to his mother.
After a long silence, Rashford wiped his face.
No.
He hadn’t done anything wrong.
Neither had his mum.
Neither had Tomás.
The ones in the wrong were Tom Martin and Moyes.
“Tomás. Let me tell you what the real Red Devil spirit actually is,” Marcus said, his voice dropping to a fierce, trembling whisper.
Tomás looked up slowly, meeting his friend’s burning gaze.
“It isn’t Sir Alex Ferguson. It isn’t David Moyes. And it sure as hell isn’t Tom Martin,” Rashford spat.
“The Red Devil spirit is the spirit of winning. Sir Alex won everything, so he became the symbol of it. When I become a winner for this club, then I’ll be the Red Devil spirit.”
He took a step back, the defiance hardening his features.
“Moyes, Martin, all those losers—they never deserved to even talk about it. And if you and blindly loyal idiots like McTominay end up leaving this club as losers, you won’t deserve it either.”
He pointed a firm finger at his own chest.
“Only winners get to stay at Manchester United forever. And only by staying here do you earn the right to even whisper about the spirit of this badge. From here on out, I’m the one carrying this club forward. I’m the one who will lead United’s revival. The true successor isn’t Januzaj. It isn’t Scott. And it isn’t you.”
Rashford lifted his chin, his eyes flashing with absolute conviction.
“It’s me. Marcus Rashford. The future king of Old Trafford.”
He looked at Tomás one last time, his expression tight with a mixture of pity and pain.
In Marcus’s eyes, Tomás had just chained himself to a doomed manager, too stubborn and blind to see the ship sinking around him.
He shot a brief glance at Lucia, who stood a few feet away, completely frozen in shock.
Then, his jaw clamped tight, he turned on his heel and walked away.
As Tomás watched him disappear down the street, Marcus’s silhouette looked entirely desolate, yet terrifyingly resolute.
Tomás sank heavily onto the cold concrete of the curb, his mind spinning in chaotic circles.
Was Tom Martin really a bad man?
Was David Moyes?
He had always believed that the manager inherently represented the spirit of the club, and that a player’s only duty was to put his head down and listen.
But Marcus’s words had shattered that simple worldview. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Had the legendary soul of Manchester United actually died with Sir Alex, leaving behind nothing but ruthless ambition, cold selfishness, and the brutal reality of the scoreboard?
Rashford’s words had cracked his worldview open.
He wanted to push back.
But could ideals hold up against a reality this brutal?
The team was fractured, everyone splitting into cliques over self-interest.
Was holding onto an ideal foolish?
Or was it simply because he was too new, fresh off the U16 side?
Would he eventually fall in line and agree with Rashford?
Faced with reality, were ideals just garbage?
A cold, condensation-covered bottle pressed against his cheek, startling him out of his downward spiral.
“Last one. Saved it for you. Strawberry yogurt. Drink it.”
Tomás took the bottle from Lucia, their fingers brushing for a fraction of a second.
“Thanks.”
Lucia offered a gentle, slightly sad smile and sat down beside him on the curb.
The space between them was just a little too close, yet heavily guarded by an invisible line.
But right now, Marcus was a furious storm that had just walked away, leaving her sitting here in the quiet aftermath with the boy he had yelled at.
“Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me, three years ago?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Tomás blinked.
His mind slipped back.
Morning orientation.
A shy, terrified girl standing on stage.
A knot of kids in the crowd starting a cruel chant, calling her ugly, laughing at her.
And then Tomás—who could barely string together a sentence in English, who got sick to his stomach just being looked at—standing up anyway.
His face burning red as he stammered out in broken English: I…
I think she’s pretty!
He remembered.
It was one of the bravest and emberassing moments of his life.
Tomás didn’t say anything.
He just looked at the bottle in his hands.
“Back then, the whole world thought I was ugly,” Lucia said softly, her eyes tracing his profile.
“You were the only one brave enough to say I was pretty.”
She tilted her head, a complicated, searching warmth in her eyes.
“And now?”
Tomás stayed quiet.
The air between them suddenly felt heavy.
Sensing his hesitation, Lucia carefully pulled back, burying a tiny flicker of disappointment behind a playful pout.
“These days, everyone says I’m the prettiest girl in school. Nobody laughs at me anymore. The same kids who used to mock me now trip over themselves to flatter me.”
Tomás’s eyes widened.
He stared at her, the gears in his head turning.
The beliefs that Marcus had just shattered suddenly snapped back into place.
Reality could change.
The crowd’s opinion could shift.
But ideals—truth, courage, loyalty—were forever, as long as you were brave enough to stand by them when it was hard.
Someday, one person’s stubborn persistence could rewrite reality entirely.
No.
Not just one person.
“Lucia, you’re right,” Tomás said, a sudden fire returning to his eyes as he stood up.
“And Scott, too!”
He wasn’t walking this path alone.
McTominay believed in the same United spirit.
Lucia looked up at him.
She saw the light back in his eyes—the exact same quiet bravery she’d admired in him three years ago.
She smiled, the tension finally leaving her shoulders.
“Lucia?” he asked, offering his hand.
She looked at his hand, taking a quiet breath to steady herself.
“It’s alright,” she said softly, placing her hand in his and letting him pull her to her feet.
“Let’s go, Tomás.”