Carrington Training Base: February 2nd
The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, casting long, bruised shadows across the pristine turf of Carrington.
The floodlights hummed overhead.
On the pitch, a solitary figure was dancing.
Ling placed the ball, took a breath, and exploded into motion. He flicked the ball right, then snapped it back left in a blur of motion.
The Cow Tail. The Elastico.
He repeated the move again and again, his breath misting in the cold air. He was trying to fuse the rhythm of Rivellino with the explosive power of Ronaldo.
Finally, he stopped, hands on his knees, panting. He looked around. The training ground was eerily silent.
Usually, Rashford would be practicing free-kicks, or Lingard would be messing around near the corner flag. Even the hardworking McTominay was gone.
"Strange," Ling muttered. "It's February 2nd. Not Valentine's Day. Did I miss a memo?"
He picked up the bag of balls and trudged toward the locker room.
He pushed the heavy door open.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The air instantly filled with the smell of gunpowder and sulfur. Colorful streamers exploded into his face, swirling chaotically like a nest of paper snakes.
"SURPRISE!"
"Let's welcome the Premier League's Top Scorer—LING!"
Jesse Lingard was standing on the central table, chest puffed out, shouting at the top of his lungs like an MC at a concert.
"FOUR GOALS! A POKER!"
The entire squad erupted, cheering and banging on the lockers.
Paul Pogba was dancing; David De Gea was clapping rhythmically.
Ling laughed, helplessly brushing pink and gold confetti out of his hair. "Gentlemen! Gentlemen, please! I must correct you—Mohamed Salah has scored the same number of goals as I have!"
"Technically," Ling grinned, "I am only joint top scorer."
"Details, details!" Pogba shouted.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ling saw Rashford vigorously shaking a magnum bottle of champagne, his thumb poised over the cork.
"Marcus! Stop!" Ling shouted, rushing forward to grab the bottle. "Put that back in the fridge right now!"
"Come on, Ling! Live a little!" Rashford protested.
"You know popping champagne early is bad luck," Ling said seriously. "Remember AC Milan? Istanbul, 2005? They celebrated at halftime. They touched the trophy. And what happened?"
The room went quiet.
Every footballer knew the story. Milan bottled a 3-0 lead.
"We haven't won anything yet," Ling said softly. "Save the bubbles for May."
Rashford paused, looking at the bottle, then at Ling. He nodded slowly. "You make a good point. Fair play."
Then Rashford grinned. "But you're still paying for the drinks tonight. Next four rounds are on you."
"No problem," Ling shrugged.
"Careful though," Zlatan Ibrahimović chimed in from his locker with a mischievous glint in his eye. "One-on-one with a goalkeeper is easy. One-on-one with a cashier? That is pressure."
"Hahaha!" Lingard cackled. "Do you think Ling will try step-overs when he pays? Can he nutmeg the barman?"
The locker room dissolved into laughter.
"You guys..." Ling pointed at them, shaking his head.
Then he adopted a stern face. "Actually, I think I could. I'd send the cashier for a hot dog."
More laughter.
The camaraderie between them was thick, warm, and genuine.
The door opened again.
Jose Mourinho leaned against the frame, watching his team. He had waited outside, letting them have their moment.
"Alright, settle down," Mourinho said, a small smile playing on his lips. "Let's have a quick family meeting."
The players sat down. The mood shifted from party to professional instantly.
"The season is more than halfway over," Mourinho began, pacing the room. "We have 14 league matches left. We are top, yes. But Manchester City won 3-0 yesterday. They are right behind us. They are waiting for us to blink."
"It is fine to celebrate victories like Tottenham. That was historic. But do not get carried away. Stay humble."
He looked at the fixture list on the wall.
"According to the schedule, we face Manchester City in the third-to-last round. That match will likely decide the title. Everyone needs to be prepared to fight until the final whistle of the final game."
Mourinho's tone wasn't his usual aggressive bark; it was calm, paternal.
"Now," Mourinho continued. "The Champions League is returning. I want to know where your heads are at. Zlatan?"
Ibrahimović stood up. He didn't need to think.
"Boss, I am proud of my career. I have won everything. But I have never won the Big Ears," Zlatan said, his voice deep.
"A Champions League final without Zlatan is not worth watching. I want to change that."
"Good," Mourinho nodded. "David?"
De Gea peeled off his gloves. "To be honest? I've had enough of the Europa League. I am sick of Thursday nights. I want to make progress in the Champions League. And by progress, I mean I want to hold the trophy."
"Excellent. Ling?"
Mourinho turned his gaze to the youngster. "What are your thoughts?"
Ling sat on the bench, staring at his hands.
What was his goal?
Six months ago, his goal was survival.
It was to pay off his family's debts, to buy his parents a house, to secure a contract. With a weekly salary of £100,000 and endorsement deals rolling in, he had achieved that. He was rich. He was famous.
So, what now?
He looked around the room. He saw Zlatan's hunger. He saw De Gea's desire.
A tiny flame ignited in his chest.
It wasn't about money anymore. It was about legacy. It was about standing on the podium with the confetti falling, knowing you were the best in the world.
Ling looked up. His eyes were burning.
"I want trophies," Ling said, his voice cutting through the silence. "I want the FA Cup. I want the Premier League. I want the Champions League. I want everything."
He paused.
"But I can't do it alone. I'm just a guy who runs fast. I need you guys. So... let's go get them."
The dressing room was deadly silent for a heartbeat.
Then, Zlatan slammed his hand on the locker.
"That's the right answer!"
"Excellent," Mourinho said softly.
"Since Sir Alex left, this club has forgotten how to win the big ones. Maybe it was the managers. Maybe it was the players. It doesn't matter. The past is dead."
"This season, we will win. Why?" Mourinho scanned the room, locking eyes with every player.
"Because we have the best players. And you have me."
"This isn't arrogance. I never lie to you. We beat City. We beat Chelsea. We beat Liverpool. We just put seven past Tottenham. We are the best team in England. Now, we just have to finish the job."
Mourinho pointed at Ling.
"I once told Ling something: Human potential is limitless, but it is locked away in a cabinet. Confidence is the key to unlocking it."
"Now, I am giving that key to all of you. Unlock the cabinet."
...
Matchday 26: Manchester United vs. Huddersfield Town
The turnaround was brutal. Just three days after the high of White Hart Lane, United were back in action.
Mourinho rotated heavily. Ling wasn't even in the squad; he was watching from the stands in a wool coat.
The manager was protecting his "Formula 1 engine."
The first half was a stark contrast to the Tottenham game.
It was a grind.
Huddersfield Town parked the bus. They sat deep, kicked lumps out of the United midfielders, and wasted time. The score at halftime was 0-0.
The crowd grew restless. Murmurs rippled through the Stretford End.
'Was the 7-0 a fluke? Are we tired?'
55th Minute
United needed a spark. But with Ling and Pogba resting, who would provide it?
The answer came from the academy.
Juan Mata curled a cross into the box. It was cleared, but only as far as the edge of the area.
Scott McTominay was waiting.
The young Scot controlled the ball with his chest. He didn't panic. He let it drop, shielded it from the defender, and drove a low, powerful shot toward the bottom corner.
Bang!
The net rippled.
1-0 Manchester United!
McTominay sprinted to the corner flag, kissing the badge, veins popping in his neck.
It was a significant moment.
In the winter window, United had signed Mateo Kovačić and the midfield was crowded—Pogba, Matic, Herrera, Fellaini, Carrick, and now Kovačić.
Most pundits expected McTominay to leave on loan. Leeds United, Fulham, and Aston Villa had all called. They promised him starts. They promised him glory in the Championship.
But McTominay had knocked on Mourinho's door.
"I'm not going," Scott had said. "I don't care who you signed. I'm a Manchester United player. I'll fight for my place."
In the end, Mourinho chose to respect his player's wishes and promised to do his best to give him playing time.
And today, that faith was repaid.
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