Chapter 166: Owner Gets Angry
"...Tell me who caused this. Now."
The voice thundered out of the phone’s speaker with such anger and force it sent a chill down every spine in the boardroom. Everyone froze. No one dared breathe. Some had their mouths ajar, while others instinctively covered them with their hands as though doing so might shield them from the wrath echoing through the sleek walls. The unmistakable fury of Joel Glazer—the owner of Manchester United—was not something you just brushed off.
It wasn’t just anger. It was pure, undiluted rage. The kind that crackled like static and sent imaginary lightning bolts through the air.
In the tense silence that followed, one voice managed to break through—a disbelieving murmur that sounded like it was half-question, half-nervous laughter.
"No way did he really say that," Mohamed whispered, wide-eyed. He looked around as if he was at the room full of stunned executives and players, as if searching for confirmation that this was real life and not some stress-induced hallucination.
—
Hours later, and far away from the sterile air-conditioned war zone that had become the boardroom, David Jones strolled into a private hospital room, as calm and unbothered as ever. Not a scratch on him. Not a bruise. Just his usual swagger and a faint smell of whatever ridiculously expensive cologne he’d spritzed on. He looked like someone straight out of a heroic football manga—flawless, smirking, and holding court like the chaos of earlier had only added to his legend.
He was in his element.
His best friend, Mohamed, lay propped up on the bed opposite. The kit boy at Manchester United and David’s now partner-in-crime, Mo had a thick bandage wrapped around his forehead, his curly hair sticking out in odd directions, giving him the look of someone who’d headbutted a brick wall and won on points. Pale, but recovering. He’d been drifting in and out of sleep until David’s dramatic arrival snapped him right back into reality.
Seated nearby, in a plastic hospital chair that squeaked every time he shifted, was Prakesh—his loyal, ever-patient Indian driver, who’d taken the brunt of the day’s madness. His leg was in a brace, and there was a split lip that looked like it belonged in a boxing match recap. Prakesh, who usually freaked out over mild traffic delays, had nearly gone feral when his precious car was almost towed during the chaos. It had taken every ounce of David’s charm—and a frantic call to the club’s management to show the car in their custody—to stop him from challenging the hospital security to a duel.
David was now in full flow, arms swinging like a street performer retelling a crime scene. "So then, the phone rings—BAM—and I know, from the moment that voice comes through, that it’s HIM. Big boss. Joel freaking Glazer. And he’s not in a good mood. I’m talking full-on volcano mode."