Chapter 349: Boss… Is It Too Late to Regret My Decision?
The night he accepted the Silver Shorts award, Li Ang didn't linger long in Monaco. After a brief coffee with Ronaldo, he caught a flight straight back to London.
There was no time to rest—Premier League Matchday 4 was about to kick off, and Chelsea were facing Li Ang's favorite Premier League opponent:
Manchester United.
Mourinho might've been fine resting Li Ang for this match, but Li Ang himself wasn't going to miss a reunion with his little brother Lukaku.
That night, at Heathrow Airport, Li Ang, arriving with his agency entourage and holding UEFA's Best Player in Europe trophy, instantly became the target of every camera lens.
Journalists scrambled to capture the image of England's new king with his shiny silver award.
Li Ang didn't want to show off, but he couldn't override Mendes' insistence.
They deliberately lingered at the terminal to give the press time to snap away before finally heading home.
Strangely, holding that UEFA award didn't excite him as much as he'd imagined.
It felt more like an appetizer. Enjoyable, yes—but not the main course.
What Li Ang truly craved was next year's Ballon d'Or.
So, barely an hour after getting home, he had his assistant put the trophy away in his personal museum.
The next morning, back at Cobham, he was greeted by warm congratulations from staff and teammates.
He responded with a polite smile and quiet gratitude, his calm demeanor once again elevating his already god-like image within the club.
The other Chelsea players? They were in awe.
Because, let's be honest—if any of them had won UEFA's Best Player, they would've bragged for at least two days straight.
But not Li Ang.
The man was as steady as ever, his emotions locked down.
The rest of the squad could only sigh in admiration.
No wonder he was the only one standing toe-to-toe with Messi and Ronaldo.
Even the younger players, inspired by his professionalism and humility, buried themselves in training with renewed purpose.
Mourinho was very pleased.
So much so that after the final training session before the United match, he handed out a few surprise rewards.
Zouma was named in the starting XI.
Gnabry and Loftus-Cheek were both included in the 18-man matchday squad.
Meanwhile, Maguire, who had been excellent but had played nearly every minute so far, was given a rare day off.
All three young players had been promised minutes this season, and they were over the moon.
During the pre-match warmup, Li Ang even joked with Zouma:
"Don't go too hard during warmups, yeah? Don't want to wear yourself out before kickoff!"
The veterans joined in, making light-hearted jabs to ease the younger defender's nerves.
Chelsea's half of the pitch was full of laughter and camaraderie.
Meanwhile, over on Manchester United's side, things were… tense.
Lukaku, standing alone in a sea of red, looked completely out of place.
No one spoke to him.
No banter, no friendly chat.
Not even basic small talk.
And suddenly, he understood everything Li Ang had warned him about.
Life inside a "big club" dressing room?
It wasn't all sunshine and glory.
The veterans had their own clique.
New arrivals under the new coach had theirs.
English speakers huddled together.
Spanish speakers formed another circle.
Lukaku had underestimated just how isolating United's locker room could be.
Sure, he thought his transfer fee and on-field ability would earn him some respect.
He didn't expect anyone to fawn over him, but he figured at least the veterans would be welcoming.
He was wrong.
He'd imagined this new chapter too beautifully.
And reality slapped him in the face.
Last season, United had enjoyed a brief moment of unity—when they pushed for a Champions League spot in the final weeks of the campaign.
For that stretch, everyone pulled together.
Then they hit a wall.
And that wall was called Chelsea.
After losing to them, United collapsed.
Led by Rooney, the senior players publicly clashed with management.
Younger players started pushing for transfers.
Some left—like Di María, who jumped to PSG.
Others failed—like Mata and Fellaini, who stayed but were clearly unhappy.
The few who genuinely wanted to stay and rebuild—like Chicharito—were kicked out by Van Gaal.
In short, the dressing room was a mess.
Van Gaal? He doubled down.
Unable to rein in Rooney and company, he built a new team from scratch with a summer spending spree.
He didn't care about smoothing internal relationships—he only wanted results.
But the more he ignored the problem, the worse the results would become.
And in the middle of it all, Lukaku became collateral damage.
Ironically, he'd actually played well in the first three matches.
Two goals in three games, including a winner that delivered United their first victory.
The fans loved him.
But the veterans?
They didn't care.
He was Van Gaal's striker, and that was enough to earn their cold shoulders.
He couldn't understand why—why his goals, his contributions, his desire to win weren't enough to earn respect.
He missed his brothers at Chelsea.
He missed the open, easy-going locker room.
Most of all, he missed Li Ang—the captain who never ostracized new players, who always helped everyone settle in.
He should've listened.
He'd been blinded by the allure of a "big club."
And now?
Was it too late to turn back?
Li Ang didn't know the full extent of Lukaku's struggles, and they hadn't spoken much since the transfer.
But even just based on memory—on his understanding of that era of Manchester United—he already knew:
Lukaku would have a rough time.
The media had been reporting for weeks about the chaos inside United's dressing room.
And even if Li Ang ignored that, he remembered enough from history to know what was coming.
But there was nothing he could do, except feel sympathy.
Lukaku made his choice.
Now he had to own it.
At least he'd already won league titles and a Champions League with Chelsea.
He left with no regrets.
August 29, 3 p.m.
Premier League Matchday 4.
Manchester United vs. Chelsea at Old Trafford.
For the past two seasons, United hadn't beaten Chelsea once.
From players to fans, United were haunted by psychological scars.
They'd lost in every way imaginable.
Van Gaal had been burned by Chelsea before.
This time, he played it safe—lining up with a defensive 5-4-1.
When Mourinho saw the lineup, all he could do was shake his head.
He really hadn't expected that one day, Manchester United would be the first to flinch at Old Trafford.
But credit where it's due—Van Gaal's ultra-defensive tactics did reduce the risk of a blowout at the hands of Chelsea.
When United parked the bus, neither Mourinho nor Chelsea's starters felt particularly inclined to force their way through.
From the opening whistle, Chelsea controlled possession, slowly probing at United's deep-set midfield.
Li Ang glanced ahead at Fellaini and Herrera, sitting conservatively in front of the defense.
On the flanks, nominal wide midfielders Schweinsteiger and Schneiderlin had tucked in too, making the entire midfield a thick central wall.
Inwardly, Li Ang couldn't help but marvel at Van Gaal's tactical weirdness.
"Was this really necessary? Four midfielders in a straight line—this is basically four defensive mids!
You're Manchester United! The pride of England! Where's your damn backbone?!"
He vented silently, conveniently forgetting that Mourinho had used a four-DM system more than once.
United's game plan was obvious: survive first, attack later.
They weren't playing to win. They were playing not to lose.
Li Ang could understand United's desire to stay defensively solid.
But as the man who loved scoring against Manchester United the most, he wasn't thrilled about spending half a match trying to break through their midfield wall.
Against a parked bus, the smartest play was to pull the defense apart.
United had four central midfielders—none of whom were particularly fast.
Li Ang only needed a moment to figure out how to exploit them.
"Eden! Come here…"
During a stoppage, he quickly waved Hazard over and whispered instructions.
Hazard nodded, a grin spreading across his face.
He gave Li Ang a reassuring thumbs-up.
The TV cameras caught the two in a quick, secretive huddle.
Fans watching at home were dying to know what Li Ang had just cooked up.
They wouldn't have to wait long.
Chelsea adjusted immediately, matching United's four-man midfield.
But unlike United, whose players clumped together in the middle, Chelsea spread out to maximize the width of the pitch.
Hazard and Li Ang took up wide midfield positions, flanking Kroos and Matić, who held the center.
Suárez and Salah stayed up top as dual strikers, both capable of dropping deep to link play.
Chelsea pushed forward as a unit.
But instead of constantly feeding passes into the final third, they focused on horizontal ball movement, stretching United from side to side.
Both Li Ang and Hazard were elite dribblers who could hold the ball under pressure.
And when either took possession, United's midfield couldn't ignore them.
Kroos and Matić controlled the rhythm.
The passing was smooth, fast, and precise.
With the midfield pulled apart, Hazard and Li Ang looked ready to strike at any moment.
This put massive pressure on United's midfield.
If Schweinsteiger had still been in his prime, he might have covered for Fellaini's lack of lateral mobility.
But the problem was… he wasn't.
Physically, Schweinsteiger had declined.
Mentally, he lacked the hunger—he'd already won it all.
Bundesliga titles, a Champions League, a World Cup.
He wasn't here to fight; he was here to collect his check and ride off into retirement.
And the others?
Herrera, Fellaini, Schneiderlin—all hard workers, sure.
But not elite.
Not cut out to start for a title-chasing giant.
Faced with Chelsea's quick passes, they weren't just slow to press—they couldn't even hold the shape together.
Fellaini was especially frustrated.
His strength was one-on-one duels, intercepting directly in front of him.
Now he was being asked to shuffle side to side to keep up with Chelsea's lateral movement?
Forget it.
Van Gaal, watching from the sideline, was fuming.
He'd predicted Chelsea would adjust tactically—but not this well, and not this fast.
Only seven or eight minutes into the match, and Fellaini already looked like he was falling apart.
Van Gaal actually considered pulling him before halftime and bringing on Ashley Young to add mobility.
But before he could act, Li Ang struck.
Operating from the right side of midfield, he suddenly took the ball and drove straight into United's central block.
Schneiderlin was left in the dust—Li Ang simply burst past him.
Fellaini tried to step in and cut off the inside lane, but that only left a gaping hole for Kroos to run into.
Li Ang flicked a quick cutback pass to Kroos.
The German took it in stride and immediately sent a diagonal long ball over the top.
He'd been watching, waiting.
Hazard's run was timed to perfection.
United's "solid" midfield fell apart like wet paper.
Schweinsteiger couldn't keep up.
Darmian got torched down the flank.
Hazard flew past both and whipped in a low cross to the far post.
The delivery curved around Chris Smalling, too tall to reach it.
At the back post, Suárez was already there, beating Blind to the spot.
He leapt into the air, smashing a powerful header down toward goal.
But De Gea, in peak form, pulled off a miraculous save, deflecting it away with lightning reflexes.
Only partially, though.
Because Li Ang had continued his run.
Arriving at the edge of the six-yard box, he met the bouncing rebound with a first-time volley.
No hesitation. No mercy.
De Gea couldn't stop that one.
The net bulged.
The scoreboard changed.
Chelsea had struck first.
And for the first time all game, Li Ang cracked a smile.
He waved his teammates over to the corner flag.
Behind him, in the opposite half, Lukaku stood motionless.
It had been five full minutes since he last touched the ball.
Watching Chelsea celebrate—the chemistry, the joy, the familiarity—he felt an ache deep in his chest.
Once upon a time, he had been there too.
Arms around Li Ang. Laughter and cheers.
Now?
He was isolated.
Stuck in a toxic locker room.
Scoring goals for a coach that no one respected.
Surrounded by teammates who didn't care if he failed or succeeded.
All he could think was:
"Boss… is it too late to change my mind? I don't want to be at United anymore."
Thank you for the support, friends. If you want to read more chapters in advance, go to my Patreon.
Read 40 Chapters In Advance: patreon.com/johanssen10