Chapter 179: Ronaldo’s Rage
"What are we doing?"
David’s head shot up at the sudden voice—sharp, loud, commanding. He had been sitting silently in front of his locker, shoulders slumped, fingers knotted between his knees, his breathing slow and shallow like someone trying not to drown in thoughts. His red Manchester United jersey clung to his skin, still damp with sweat. His shin pads were off, tossed on the floor beside his boots. He looked broken—not from exhaustion, but from the weight of shame.
He had replayed it again and again—the missed assist, the run he should have timed better, the foul that turned into a counter goal. The way the ball slipped from his boot, how Tyrick had dominated him. The sight of Maguire scrambling, of Guiata’s save turning into Crystal Palace’s weapon. Of Zaha celebrating. Of the boos.
And then the scream.
David turned his head up slowly, along with several others, startled.
Cristiano Ronaldo stood in the center of the dressing room.
Not pacing. Not sitting. Standing like a man on fire. His hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he had just sprinted a marathon. His eyes—dark, intense, furious—moved across the room like a searchlight looking for someone to blame.
"I said," Ronaldo growled, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife, "WHAT ARE WE DOING, EH? EH?!"
The locker room had already been heavy—two goals down at Old Trafford on opening day. Heads had been bowed. No one had spoken. Even Ten Hag’s earlier shouting had died down. But now, Ronaldo’s voice—sharp, raw, furious—tore through the fog like thunder.
Several players flinched.
Others just froze, caught off guard by how loud he was.