Chapter 165: Who?
The temperature in the boardroom at Carrington felt like it had risen five degrees.
It wasn’t the air conditioning—it was the heat of a brewing storm. Tension crackled in the room like static before a thunderclap. Ed Woodward, Executive Vice-Chairman of Manchester United, stood by the head of the long glass table, his suit jacket hanging off the back of a chair. His sleeves were rolled up, his expression thunderous, his forehead lightly glistening with frustration-fueled sweat. He was pressed, deeply pressed.
The boardroom wasn’t silent, far from it. It was chaos cloaked in professionalism, and each man in the room handled it in his own distinct, desperate way.
Richard Fairclough, the Head of Communications—PR chief, fixer, spin doctor—was pacing near the window with his phone jammed to his ear. His voice was low but urgent, a practiced whisper of negotiation honed from years of turning disasters into clickbait victories.
"No, no, don’t run the story," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose as he moved swiftly. "Yes, I know you have it. Everyone does. But I’m offering you something better. A one-on-one, all-access sit-down with Ronaldo. No filters. Full footage rights." A beat passed, and his tone sharpened. "Yes, I’m serious. But only if you bury this. Permanently."
He ended the call without even waiting for a proper goodbye and immediately punched in another number. He didn’t even glance at the others. Time was moving like a guillotine, and he had stories to kill.
On the other end of the room, Robert Lancing, a senior board member with salt-and-pepper hair and a lawyer’s demeanor, sat with his legs crossed and his voice calm but firm as he spoke into his phone.
"No, listen—this cannot get out, not in this window," Robert said, speaking to someone in legal or maybe someone in media compliance. "If it airs, we’re opening ourselves to public ridicule, potential investor flight, and a goddamn sponsor panic." He paused. "I don’t care what footage The Sun says they have—find a way to kill it. You hear me? Find a way."
Meanwhile, seated at the far end of the table, Erik ten Hag looked like a man who’d been forced into the wrong war room. He wasn’t talking—not yet—but the tautness in his jawline, the way his eyes tracked the movement of the room with military precision, said enough. His fists were clenched. Not out of fear, but fury.
This was not what he had come to Manchester United for. This wasn’t football.
He had a squad to prepare. A system to enforce. A legacy to build. But instead of being on the grass with cones and balls, he was here, surrounded by men in suits who were too busy managing optics instead of managing the damn club.