Manchester United Revival

Waking up slowly, Milly Alcock blinked against the bright morning glare filtering through the large glass windows. Staring at the high, stark-white ceiling, she didn't recognize the room at first, feeling the heavy, high-thread-count sheets covering her shoulders.

Then, the memories of the previous night rushed back: the chaotic football match, the dinner date, that blunt proposition on the canal path, the silent drive in the grey Mercedes, and the intense, breathless hours spent tangled in these exact covers.

A small, genuine smile spread across her face as she pulled the blanket up to her chin with a quiet sigh.

Sitting up in the slightly cool air, her gaze drifted to the bedside table where a glass of water sat next to a small lamp. A piece of white paper rested beneath the glass. Pulling the note free, she examined the sharp, angular, and incredibly neat handwriting.

I am waiting in the kitchen downstairs.

Freshen up. Take a shower. Come down when you are ready.

P.S. You can wear the clothes in my cupboard. If they fit.

Below the final line of text, Marcus had drawn a small, cartoonish face sticking its tongue out. The silly, taunting dare completely contradicted his cold, flat exterior.

Laughing quietly, she placed the paper back on the table, pushed the sheets aside, and stood up. Crossing the hardwood floor, she entered the massive master bathroom.

Dark slate tiles covered the floors and walls, leading to a large glass walk-in shower in the corner. Twisting the silver handle, she stepped inside as hot water flowed instantly, washing away the lingering fatigue of the previous night. Lathering up with a bottle of body wash she found on a shelf, the space quickly filled with the scent of cedar and citrus.

After finishing her shower, she stepped out, grabbed a large white towel from the heated rack, and wrapped it tightly around her body. Wiping the steam from the mirror, she brushed her wet blonde hair backward with her fingers before returning to the bedroom.

Approaching the large, built-in wardrobe occupying the far wall, she slid the heavy wooden doors open, fully expecting to see rows of tailored suits and plain black club tracksuits.

Instead, she discovered an entire section dedicated strictly to anime merchandise. Dozens of graphic t-shirts featuring characters from Bleach, Naruto, and Jujutsu Kaisen hung neatly on wooden hangers alongside a row of vibrant, stylized jackets.

Smiling at the revelation that the stoic manager of Manchester United hid a massive anime collection in his closet, she gladly accepted his dare. Reaching into the wardrobe, she retrieved a pair of his dark green cargo pants, a thick canvas belt hanging from a hook, and a black, oversized vintage anime t-shirt.

Dropping the towel, she pulled the cargo pants on. They were too big for her—the waist hung loose, and the legs bunched up heavily over her feet. Refusing to let that stop her, she threaded the canvas belt through the loops and pulled it tight, cinching the waist firmly against her own. Rolling the thick fabric of the pant legs up to her ankles created a bulky, deliberate cuff.

Slipping the black t-shirt over her head, the sleeves reached her elbows while the hem dropped to her mid-thigh. Gathering the excess fabric at the front, she twisted it into a tight knot and tucked it securely under the hem to crop the shirt right above her waist.

Checking her reflection in the full-length mirror, she made a few minor adjustments to the collar and belt. The oversized clothes no longer looked like awkward borrowed items; instead, they gave off the vibe of a deliberate, streetwear fashion choice.

Descending the main staircase into the entirely silent house, she followed the rich smell of cooking food down a wide hallway until entering the modern kitchen. White marble countertops stretched across the room, perfectly complementing the sleek stainless steel appliances lining the walls.

Standing in front of the large stove, Marcus Vale wore a plain grey t-shirt and dark sweatpants. Holding a wooden spoon, he stirred the contents of a large cast-iron skillet with rhythmic precision.

Without turning his head as she walked in, the manager quickly noted the rolled cuffs and the knotted shirt.

"The clothes look better on you than they do on me, Good styling."

"Cheers," Milly smiled, strolling into the kitchen. "Do you literally have eyes in the back of your head or what?"

"The reflection in the oven glass," he corrected calmly, tapping the wooden spoon against the edge of the skillet. "Sit down. Breakfast is ready."

Taking a seat on a high wooden stool at the kitchen island, she watched him carry the heavy pan over and place it on a heat-resistant mat right in front of her.

Looking into the skillet, she found a flawless Shakshuka. A rich, thick tomato and red pepper sauce bubbled gently around four perfectly poached eggs resting in the center, garnished beautifully with crumbled white feta cheese and fresh green herbs. The warm aroma of cumin and paprika filled the air.

Retrieving a wooden cutting board carrying two large slices of thick, toasted sourdough bread, he placed it next to the skillet and handed her a set of silverware.

"Bloody hell," she muttered, picking up her fork. She looked from the gorgeous food up to his face. "You can actually cook?"

"Yeah, had to learn during my time in Belgium," he answered, taking a seat on the adjacent stool to pick up a piece of the toasted bread.

Dipping a torn chunk of sourdough into the tomato sauce, the actress broke the yolk of a poached egg and took her first bite. Closing her eyes, she chewed slowly to savor the flavor.

"Oh my god, this is unreal," she praised sincerely, immediately taking another bite. "Seriously, this is so bloody good."

"Thank you," he accepted, quietly eating his own portion.

Basking in the bright morning sun warming the room, the atmosphere between them felt entirely comfortable as they shared the meal.

Taking a sip of his water, the host placed the glass down and analyzed the oversized cargo pants bunched heavily around her waist by the thick canvas belt.

"Are you going commando?" he asked casually.

Choking slightly on a piece of sourdough, her eyes widened in shock. Slapping a hand over her mouth, she coughed aggressively. "Wait, what?! Jesus Christ, Marcus!"

Maintaining a completely flat expression, he didn't flinch. "It is a practical question."

Letting out a long breath, she laughed loudly, shaking her head at his lack of a filter. "Yeah, alright, I am," she admitted.

"Sensible," he noted, taking another bite of his food.

Rolling her eyes playfully, she swallowed her mouthful. "So, what's on the agenda today? Gotta go yell at your players after smashing them five-one?"

"I never yell," he replied, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Today is a recovery day. The players who started the match will do light jogging and stretching, while the substitutes complete a heavy gym session. Meanwhile, I will review the video footage of yesterday's game."

"Wait, you actually review the tape after winning by four goals?" she asked incredulously. "That's mental."

"We conceded a goal," he stated flatly. "A mistake occurred. I have to find out why that mistake occurred so it does not happen again next week."

Shaking her head, she marveled, "You never stop working, do you?"

"I stop when the season ends," he clarified before shifting the focus. "What are your plans today?"

Checking her phone resting on the marble counter, she sighed. "Gotta head back to London. Got a bunch of promo interviews this arvo for the show. Just sitting in a chair answering the exact same questions like twenty times in a row."

"Did you make travel arrangements?"

Putting the device down, she shook her head. "Nah. Came up in Emily's car yesterday, but she bailed last night. Was just gonna book a car to the train station."

Picking up his glass for another sip, he set it down decisively. "Take the Mercedes."

She stopped chewing entirely. "Wait, your car? The insane custom one?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "The keys are in the bowl by the front door. You can drive it down to London. If you get bored on the highway, just push the button on the steering wheel to engage the auto-drive feature. It will drive itself."

Staring at him in disbelief, she protested, "Marcus, the inside of that thing looks like it costs a fortune. Are you sure? London is like two hundred miles away."

Offering a lazy shrug, he dismissed the concern. "It is just a car. I am already working on building another one in my spare time. Do not worry about it."

"How're you gonna get it back, though?" she wondered.

"I will have someone from the club staff take a train down to London tomorrow and drive it back up to Manchester. It is not a problem."

A warm smile touched her lips, truly appreciating the generous gesture that saved her from dealing with public transport and lurking paparazzi. "Thanks so much. I promise I'll take super good care of it."

"Just do not crash it into a wall," he warned flatly. "The paperwork for the insurance company is very tedious."

Laughter echoed through the kitchen as they finished their breakfast. Standing up, Milly carried her empty plate to the sink to rinse it under the tap.

"Right, I should probably get going," she announced. "Got a massive drive ahead of me."

"I will walk you to the door."

Following her out of the kitchen and down the wide hallway, he stopped by the front door to retrieve the Mercedes key fob from the small ceramic entry bowl. Handing it over, he watched her take the keys in her left hand.

Stepping boldly into his space, she looked up at him.

Wrapping both arms securely around her waist, he pulled her close, leaned down, and kissed her. Tangling her free arm around his neck, she kissed him back fiercely, perfectly mirroring the intense passion of the previous night as they held each other tightly in the quiet hallway.

Eventually running out of breath, she pulled her head back with a slightly heaving chest and a bright smile before leaning in for one short, light peck on the lips.

"See ya, Marcus," she murmured quietly.

"Drive safely," he instructed, his gaze dropping to the thick canvas belt wrapped tightly around her small waist. "If the belt starts slipping, you know exactly where to find me."

Pausing mid-step, she looked back at his deadpan face before a massive grin broke across her features.

"You're actually the worst," she laughed, shaking her head as she opened the heavy front door and headed out toward the garage.

Watching her depart, he finally closed the door, plunging the house back into total silence.

Heading upstairs, the manager changed out of his casual clothes into his standard black club tracksuit, grabbed his tactical notebook and a pen, and returned to the garage. Bypassing the empty spot where the estate car usually sat, he unlocked the dark green Volvo, climbed inside, and drove out of Hale Barns. Navigating the local roads effortlessly, he soon arrived at the Carrington training complex.

After badging through the security gates and parking in his designated spot, he entered the main building to find a remarkably quiet atmosphere. The morning after a matchday always lacked the loud, chaotic energy of tactical preparation, replaced instead by the slow, deliberate focus of physical recovery.

Inside the medical wing, the starting players from the Liverpool match received deep-tissue massages, soaked in cold plunge pools, or rode stationary bikes at very low resistance levels to flush heavy fatigue from their legs. With no team meetings or tactical drills scheduled on the grass, the boss walked past the recovery rooms without disturbing anyone and headed straight into the main gym.

The massive, high-ceilinged room was filled with state-of-the-art equipment, featuring rows of squat racks, free weights, and resistance machines lining the rubber flooring. Dropping his notebook onto a nearby bench, he began his own workout routine.

Stepping up to the pull-up bar, he executed three sets of fifteen reps with controlled, precise movements devoid of any swinging or wasted energy. Moving on to the squat rack, he loaded the barbell with heavy iron plates, stepped under the cold metal to rest it securely across his shoulders, and lifted it off the hooks. Performing deep, heavy squats, he focused entirely on maintaining perfect breathing and form.

While resting between sets, his analytical gaze swept across the gym.

Occupying the far corner, three young players—James Garner, Alvaro Carreras, and Kobbie Mainoo—worked diligently through their specific exercise routines. Having not started against Liverpool, the academy graduates desperately needed to build physical mass to survive the brutal, crunching tackles inherent to the Premier League.

Watching them closely, he noted Garner executing a series of heavy deadlifts to build the core strength required for midfield duels. Meanwhile, Carreras focused on explosive box jumps to train his speed for overlapping sprints down the touchline, and Mainoo sat on a bench performing isolated dumbbell curls to add necessary bulk to his upper body.

Pushing themselves to the absolute limit while sweat dripped down their faces, the strength and conditioning coach shouted loud encouragement to force out their final reps.

Nodding to himself in approval, the manager understood that while the youth academy consistently produced technically gifted athletes, raw technical skill always failed against the physical giants of English football without proper armor. Right now, they were busy forging that armor.

Finishing his heavy lifting session, he transitioned to the cardiovascular equipment to run on the treadmill for thirty minutes. With his dark t-shirt completely soaked in sweat, he grabbed a towel, wiped his face, and retreated to the staff locker room for a fast, cold shower before changing back into a clean black tracksuit.

Walking down the quiet corridor to his private office, he sat down behind his large desk, opened his laptop, and connected it to the large television screen mounted on the wall. Loading the video file of the Liverpool match, he completely ignored the glory of their five goals, opting instead to fast-forward through the successful passing combinations in order to hunt for specific flaws.

Stopping the playback at the twelfth minute, he focused entirely on the buildup leading to the lone Liverpool goal.

Watching Thiago intercept the critical pass from Zakaria, he rewound the video ten seconds to watch it again, fixating on the Swiss midfielder's body position right before the turnover. Because Zakaria looked down at the ball for a fraction of a second too long without scanning his blind spot, the Spanish veteran easily anticipated the hesitation and stepped right into the passing lane.

Jotting the mistake down on a piece of paper, the coach wrote: Zakaria. Scanning frequency dropping under low pressure. Needs correction.

Letting the footage play forward, he observed Luis Díaz sprinting down the left flank as Trippier scrambled back to cover. When the winger cut inside onto his right foot, Marcus paused the video to examine the defender's footwork. By standing entirely too square, the fullback failed to force the attacker down the touchline toward his weaker foot, granting Díaz an easy avenue inside.

Another note was quickly scribbled: Trippier. Defensive stance square against inverted wingers. Must force outside.

As the video continued, Firmino received the ball, dragged it cleverly with his studs, and slipped the assist to Salah.

Watching the fateful deflection, he saw Varane step forward bravely to block the shot, only for the ball to strike his knee and loop helplessly over De Gea. Rewinding the sequence three times, the tactician analyzed the exact positioning of both Varane and Maguire, searching desperately for a structural failure.

He found absolutely none. The French center-back did exactly what he was instructed to do by closing the angle and making his body big to block the primary path to the goal. The nasty deflection was simply a bad bounce and a lucky break for the opposition; it certainly did not require a sweeping tactical panic. Refusing to write anything down regarding the fluke goal, he merely accepted the bad luck and moved on.

Skipping forward to the thirty-sixth minute, he analyzed the brilliant equalizer by Sancho directly from Liverpool's perspective to understand exactly why Klopp's defensive structure had broken down so completely.

Watching Fabinho foolishly follow Ronaldo deep into the United half while Van Dijk stubbornly anchored the edge of the penalty area, he noted the massive gap between the midfield and defensive lines growing to nearly thirty yards. Shifting his focus to Trent Alexander-Arnold, the manager saw the full-back staring exclusively at the ball at Ronaldo's feet. By narrowing his position and stepping much closer to Konaté, the defender completely ignored the wide channel, allowing Sancho to sprint cleanly into the vacant gap.

Pausing the video to admire the vast expanse of green grass left completely unguarded behind the English full-back, Marcus acknowledged that while the player possessed world-class passing vision, his defensive awareness remained fundamentally flawed due to chronic ball-watching.

A final note was recorded: Alexander-Arnold. Continues to prioritize ball location over spatial awareness. Highly exploitable via blind-side runs. Permanent target.

Spending the next two hours meticulously analyzing the remainder of the match, he broke down positional rotations, monitored Donny van de Beek's stellar off-the-ball movement, and evaluated Bruno Guimaraes's defensive execution. Uncovering several minor inefficiencies where a pass took one second longer than necessary or a player occupied the wrong zone by a matter of mere inches, he eventually filled three dense pages with analytical notes. These exact observations would be used to design the upcoming week's training drills, forcing the squad to practice the corrections until the mistakes disappeared entirely.

Closing his laptop and standing up from the desk, he exited the office and took the stairs up to the executive floor of the Carrington complex. Walking across thicker carpets past walls adorned with framed photographs of the club's historic triumphs, he stopped at the very end of the hallway before a heavy oak door bearing a small brass plaque: Alexander Vance - CEO.

Knocking three times, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The impeccably clean, sprawling office housed Alexander Vance, who sat behind a massive mahogany desk wearing a sharp, tailored navy suit. Typing rapidly on his sleek laptop, the CEO was surrounded by several thick financial folders neatly stacked on the corner of the desk.

Strolling across the room, the manager approached the long leather couch resting against the side wall and sat down heavily. Extending his legs to rest his sneakers casually on the edge of the glass coffee table, he slouched down until his head hit the backrest, folding his hands comfortably over his stomach.

Never breaking his typing rhythm or looking up from the screen, Alex was completely accustomed to this specific behavior. The informal slouching didn't bother him in the slightest, as the two men operated on a very different level of mutual understanding.

"Good afternoon, Marcus," the executive greeted smoothly, finally hitting the enter key. "A highly satisfactory result yesterday evening."

"Five goals," the coach replied lazily. "Though our attacking chances suggested we should have only scored four. We overperformed slightly because Sancho was incredibly clinical."

"The supporters certainly enjoyed it," Alex noted, closing his laptop lid and leaning back in his luxurious leather chair to rest his hands on the armrests. "The media reaction has been overwhelmingly positive, and the commercial value of the club continues to rise at a rapid pace."

"Football is a very simple business," Marcus mumbled, keeping his eyes half-closed. "Win games. Increase the valuation. How is the stadium progress?"

Opening the top folder on his desk, the CEO retrieved a single sheet of paper. "The groundwork for the new stadium has officially started. The excavation crews have broken ground, and the timeline remains perfectly intact. We project the stadium will be fully operational and ready to host matches by the start of the 2025/2026 season."

Nodding slowly, the tactician recognized the new stadium as a crucial piece of the Axiom Group's long-term strategy. While Old Trafford carried immense history, it severely lacked the modern revenue-generating capabilities required to truly dominate global football. This new structure would guarantee financial supremacy.

"Ensure the pitch dimensions mirror Carrington exactly," he instructed flatly. "I do not want the players adjusting their spatial awareness when we finally transition to the new ground."

"I have already communicated that strict requirement to the architects," Alex confirmed, returning the paper to its folder. "Moving on. We received a rather unique proposal last week."

Turning his head slightly, the manager opened one eye. "A proposal?"

"Yes," the executive said, picking up a different document. "The Sidemen."

Blinking in recognition, Marcus knew the name. They were a massive group of internet personalities boasting a global audience of millions, primarily dominating the younger demographics.

"They want to host a charity football match," Alex explained. "Specifically requesting the use of Old Trafford as the venue, they plan to hold the event in September during the international break when the stadium is otherwise empty."

Processing the information quickly, the manager summarized, "They want to play a football match on our pitch."

"Correct. By bringing together dozens of internet celebrities, they easily sell out stadiums and broadcast the match live to millions of viewers, raising significant funds for various charities."

"Did they offer a rental fee?"

A slight smile touched the executive's lips. "They offered a standard commercial rate. I declined it."

An eyebrow arched lazily from the couch.

"I agreed to let them use the stadium entirely for free," Alex continued smoothly. "We waive all rental fees and provide the security and staffing at our own cost. In exchange, they will heavily promote Manchester United and the Axiom Group during the broadcast, conduct stadium tours for their massive channels, and wear our official training gear during their preparation."

Nodding in complete understanding, the transaction made perfect sense.

"It projects a highly positive image," Marcus stated. "Associating the club with charitable endeavors while simultaneously marketing the brand directly to a demographic that does not traditionally watch ninety-minute football matches. We lose a few hundred thousand pounds in rental fees, but we acquire millions of pounds in highly targeted marketing exposure."

"Precisely," the CEO agreed. "It is a highly efficient public relations exercise laying the groundwork for the next generation of global supporters."

Closing the second folder, Alex reached for a much thicker, red file resting near his laptop. His expression immediately grew more serious as his tone shifted from PR to hard finance. "Now, we have a pressing matter regarding corporate sponsorship. TeamViewer."

Marcus knew TeamViewer well; they were the primary shirt sponsor, meaning their logo sat prominently across the chest of every single player.

"They are currently going through severe financial difficulties," Alex explained, opening the red folder. "The shifting global economic climate has heavily impacted their revenue streams, causing their stock price to drop significantly. Reaching out to our commercial department a few days ago, they requested to terminate the sponsorship contract early because they simply cannot afford the yearly payments."

Showing zero emotional reaction to the loss of a major sponsor, the manager viewed it merely as a standard tactical substitution in business.

"We need a primary sponsor," he stated flatly. "A blank shirt does not generate revenue."

"We do," Alex confirmed. "And we already have a premium replacement waiting."

Looking over from the couch, Marcus asked, "Who?"

"United Airlines," the executive revealed. "They approached the club several months ago wanting to become the primary sponsor, offering a highly lucrative deal that vastly surpassed the current TeamViewer contract. However, because we were bound by the existing agreement, we had to reject their generous offer."

Flashing a cold, calculating corporate smile, Alex finished the thought. "But now, TeamViewer wants to leave, actively asking us to terminate the contract. I say we let them walk. The line clears perfectly for United Airlines to step in and assume the primary sponsorship immediately."

Processing the corporate maneuvering, the manager appreciated the seamless transition. They could discard a failing sponsor and acquire a much wealthier replacement without breaching a single legal agreement.

"Have you finalized the numbers with United Airlines?"

"Not entirely," Alex admitted. "I spoke to your father this morning. After Arthur reviewed the initial proposal from United Airlines, he firmly believes we can extract a much higher valuation given our recent success in the Champions League and the massive global visibility you are currently generating."

Nodding in agreement, the coach knew Arthur Sterling never accepted the first offer; the patriarch always maximized the extraction of wealth.

"Arthur is personally taking control of the negotiation," the CEO continued. "He told me he will float a revised, significantly higher number directly to the CEO of United Airlines during a private meeting next week. Once they agree to the terms, we will draft the paperwork and proudly announce the new shirt sponsor."

"Good," Marcus murmured, closing his eyes completely and resting his head heavily against the leather couch. "Let Arthur handle the corporate negotiations. I will focus strictly on the football."

Sitting in the quiet office for a few more minutes, the pair seamlessly discussed various other businesses under the Axiom Group umbrella. The conversation flowed easily without argument, as they operated as a single, highly efficient unit. With Alex managing the business architecture and Marcus managing the sporting architecture, they supported each other perfectly.

Opening his eyes, the manager slowly pulled his legs off the glass coffee table and stood up from the deep leather couch. Stretching his arms high above his head, a joint in his shoulder popped loudly.

"I have work to do," he announced lazily. "The training schedules for next week require immediate adjustment based on the video analysis."

"Proceed," Alex permitted, opening his laptop again as his eyes immediately began scanning complex financial data on the screen. "I will inform you the moment the United Airlines deal is fully finalized."

Offering a final nod, Marcus turned around, walked across the thick carpet, and pulled the heavy oak door open to step back out into the corridor.

Closing the door behind him, he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his black tracksuit and walked slowly back toward his own office. He needed to figure out exactly how to ruthlessly exploit the defensive weaknesses of their next Premier League opponent, as the Liverpool match was already ancient history in his mind.