“David, are we really starting Tomás?”
Moyes looked up at his assistant, Steve Round, who looked reluctant but said nothing else.
A moment later, Moyes looked back down at the lineup sheet.
He drew a line through Ryan Giggs’s name.
Next to Carrick’s, he wrote Tomás.
The boy’s trembling hands and pale lips had told Moyes he knew exactly what starting this match meant.
But he had nodded anyway.
Firm.
Manchester United players are willing to give everything for their manager.
A wake-up call, that.
Right then, that slight, slender figure had looked unusually tall.
“Steve, I know you have concerns. But believe in a manager who takes this seriously. And believe in a Red Devil willing to fight for this club’s honor. Maybe he’s only seventeen. But he’s a real one.” Moyes set the pen down.
“And if this ruins him, I’ll take personal responsibility for his future.”
Moyes’s phone rang.
He answered it.
A moment later, he hung up, his face darkening.
“David?”
“Juan says he has the flu. He can’t play.”
“What?” Round stared.
He wondered immediately if Mata was faking it, ducking out of the decisive match.
Everyone was on edge.
Who was genuine, who wasn’t—who could say anymore?
But Round shook his head quickly.
“Juan is as professional as they come. He must actually be sick.”
Moyes thought it over.
His expression eased slightly.
He crossed Mata’s name out at right wing and wrote Valencia.
All the crossing out and rewriting made it obvious how much Moyes had wavered.
No more hesitating now.
This was the final version.
“Steve, I’ll get a copy made. You can post it up tomorrow morning.”
Round nodded solemnly.
Moyes wrote out the clean copy himself.
Round watched closely.
Goalkeeper: David de Gea
Back four: Patrice Evra, Rio Ferdinand, Phil Jones, Rafael.
Midfield…
Moyes paused, then moved the pen up slightly.
Tomás on the left.
Carrick on the right.
Not two defensive midfielders.
Two central midfielders.
“David?” Round asked.
“Olympiacos won’t attack. Absolutely not,” Moyes said, his voice tight.
His hand trembled slightly.
“No. Absolutely not. They will not attack.”
Old Trafford still had its magic.
Its power.
Left wing: Welbeck.
Attacking mid: Rooney.
Right wing: Valencia.
Up front: Robin van Persie.
Once he finished writing, Moyes looked like he had used up his last reserves of strength.
“You’re not going to change it?” Round asked.
“I’m not changing it. It goes up tomorrow morning.” Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
Manchester United’s starting lineup for the Champions League was finalized.
Leaving Moyes’s office, Tomás felt lightheaded.
Excitement, tension, fear—all of it at once.
Tomás, you already knew it was a trap.
So why did you nod?
Manchester United players are willing to give everything for their manager.
Replaying that moment, Tomás felt his adrenaline spike again.
The blood ran hot under his skin the exact instant he blurted out he would protect United’s honor.
Was that just his [Lion Heart] trait talking?
Or was that really who he was?
Now that the moment had passed, the fear crept back in.
Tomás looked at the two missions hovering in his vision.
The Mentor with Hidden Intentions
A Fragile Lifeline
He walked heavily toward the exit.
Eleven enemies waited across from him tomorrow.
And enemies stood right beside him too.
United could not win this.
He would be the worst player on the pitch.
After the match, the fans, the press, the board—they would all pile the blame on Moyes, demanding to know why he threw a seventeen-year-old into a match this big.
Tomás had fought for United’s honor, and in the end, he would probably be the one blamed for losing it.
Would he end up as United’s scapegoat?
The loyal one who tried to save everyone and got destroyed for his trouble?
The whole world tasted like ash in his mouth.
It struck him just how much it actually takes to be the one who falls on the sword.
Smack.
A hand slapped the back of his head, knocking him out of his thoughts.
“Hey, the Great Tomás. Mentally broken already on day one in the first team? Can’t have that. Want me to take your spot? I can take a beating!”
That smug grin.
Scott McTominay.
Tomás rolled his eyes, dropped his head, and kept walking.
McTominay frowned at the desolate slump of Tomás’s shoulders.
Normally, if he messed with him, Tomás would glare, curse him out, and call him a weasel.
This wasn’t normal.
Why did all the fight just drain out of him?
Wait.
Where was Rashford?
McTominay jogged to catch up.
“Where’s Marcus? You two are usually glued together.”
Tomás stayed quiet.
“Hey, Tomás, I think it’s normal for young players to get a little discouraged moving up.
Let me tell you something.
When I said I was the U18’s super core talent?
Total bragging.
My odds of even making that squad were slim.
McGuinness told me I wasn’t a striker, wasn’t an attacking mid, wasn’t a mid, wasn’t a defensive mid either.
The more I practiced, the worse I got.
Look at me, I can’t even hold down a spot in U18.
You’re already in the first team with a top professional contract.
You’re actually incredible.”
Tomás stopped walking.
McTominay was secretly thrilled.
Tomás looked at him, dead serious.
“So, do you think I can save Manchester United right now?”
McTominay stared.
He doubted his own hearing.
“You. Right now. Save Manchester United?”
Tomás nodded.
“Yes. Can I save Manchester United right now?”
“Hahaha, the Great Tomás, I didn’t know you had jokes like this! Hahaha… I’m dying. I’m actually dying.”
Tomás watched McTominay double over laughing.
He sighed to himself and kept walking out of Carrington, heavy-hearted.
McTominay wiped a tear and caught up again.
“Tomás, don’t be mad. I wasn’t laughing at you. I just think you have real comedic timing now. That’s a compliment!”
He hadn’t been joking.
He had meant every word.
Tomás said nothing.
McTominay glanced sideways.
“Isn’t this the wrong way home?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to go home right now.” He had no idea how he was going to tell his parents he was starting in the Champions League.
“Were you really getting bullied in the first team?” McTominay’s grin dropped.
That roguish, cheeky air vanished.
“Nobody is bullying me.”
“Don’t lie to me. Back when the three of us joined the U16s, we used to hide out here whenever we got bullied.”
Tomás didn’t answer.
A heavy voice came from behind them.
“I knew you’d be here!”
Tomás and McTominay turned.
Rashford stood there, gripping a thick wooden stick, looking like a gloomy swordsman.
He closed in on them, his knuckles white.
“Fuck!” McTominay reacted first, taking a step back to bolt.
“Marcus, calm down! I just happened to run into him on the road. I swear I didn’t bully him!”
Rashford didn’t glance at McTominay.
He stepped closer to Tomás.
“Tomás. This is going to hurt a little. But the doctor said it won’t affect my career. It definitely won’t affect yours either.”
McTominay suddenly remembered the time the three of them had gotten into a fight, and Rashford, the tallest, had shielded them and taken such a beating he broke his own left hand.
McTominay’s expression changed completely.
“Marcus, you’re going to break his hand?! Have you lost your mind?!”
“I haven’t lost anything. I’m saving this idiot. You have no idea what kind of mess he’s gotten himself into!”
“No way! What problem is so bad we need to break his hand over it?!”
“If nothing else works, we break his hand!”
“No, give me the stick!”
“Get out of my way, or you’re next!”
“What are you two doing? Stop!”
At the sound of the girl’s voice, Rashford’s entire posture snapped straight.
He shoved the stick into McTominay’s hands.
“McTominay, hold this!”
Rashford’s face smoothed out into a bright smile aimed at Lucia.
“Lucia! Don’t get the wrong idea. Us three United future legend were just practicing our swings. Heh.”
Lucia stared at him.
Tomás stared at him.
McTominay looked down at the heavy stick now in his hands.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Rashford’s smile faded.
“I was just trying to scare Tomás. I never actually meant to hit him.”
Under the weight of Lucia’s glare, Rashford confessed everything.