"And that is it!" Martin Tyler's voice boomed across the global broadcast. "Old Trafford is bouncing! Manchester United have put down a marker today. They have dismantled Chelsea with tactical discipline and moments of sheer brilliance."
"It is a massive three points," Gary Neville added, his voice thick with satisfaction. "We talked about the battle between Ling and Kante before the game. Kante won the first thirty minutes, but Ling won the match. That dribble, that goal—it changed everything. United look like a team that believes."
The celebrations at the Theatre of Dreams were just beginning.
Seventy thousand fans erupted into a cacophony of joy.
The Stretford End was a sea of red and white scarves twirling in the air. Strangers hugged strangers. The chant of "Glory, Glory Man United" echoed off the rafters, shaking the foundations of the old stadium.
However, in the away section, the mood was toxic.
The traveling Chelsea fans looked up at the giant LED scoreboard.
The bright white letters—MUN 2-0 CHE—burned into their eyes.
They had traveled north from London hoping for revenge, instead, they witnessed a surrender.
Their frustration didn't target the players; it targeted the man in the suit.
"Conte! You fraud!" a fan screamed, veins bulging in his neck.
"Resign!"
"Look what you've done to us!" another yelled, pointing an accusing finger at the dugout.
"David Luiz and Diego Costa performed so well—they were key to our title win last season, and you benched them or even sold them!"
"Antonio, get out of our club!"
Antonio Conte heard every word.
He slumped into his bucket seat in the dugout, his energy drained. He stared vacantly at the grass, ignoring the handshake offer from his assistant.
He knew the clock was ticking.
In the ruthless world of Chelsea Football Club, under Roman Abramovich, second chances were rare.
He had won the title last year, yes. But he had also exiled Diego Costa and alienated David Luiz.
The board had backed him with millions for Alvaro Morata, and that trust demanded a return.
Now? They were out of the title race. They were fighting just to stay in the Top Four. And next week, they had to go to the Camp Nou to face Lionel Messi and Barcelona.
'I am a dead man walking,' Conte thought bitterly.
He began to mentally pack his bags.
Return to Italy? Juventus had Allegri. Inter Milan was an option, but leaving England now felt like admitting defeat.
He looked across the pitch. He saw Mauricio Pochettino on the news earlier, rumored to be under pressure at Tottenham after the 7-0 thrashing.
A sudden, dark realization hit Conte.
'If I get sacked, and Pochettino gets sacked... we have both been pushed off the cliff by Manchester United.'
Conte's eyes drifted to the young man in the red Number 7 shirt, currently laughing with Paul Pogba.
'It's him,' Conte realized.
'That Chinese kid. He destroyed Spurs. Today, he destroyed my defensive plan. He is the executioner.'
He couldn't help but wonder: 'If I had signed him in January... would I still have a job in May?'
...
The internet was already ablaze.
@RedDevil_DNA: David Luiz celebrating in front of Conte is the level of petty I aspire to be. Absolute cinema. 🍿 #MUNCHE
@CFC_BlueIsTheColour: Conte out. I've defended him for months, but the tactics are stale. We look clueless. Morata couldn't even finish a sandwich.
@TacticalTim: United's transition play is scary. Pogba and Ling have serious chemistry. The way they isolated Kante was genius.
@NeutralFan: Chelsea are imploding. The players aren't playing for the manager anymore. You can see it in their body language.
...
On the pitch, the contrast between the two team was stark.
The United players were huddled together, adrenaline still pumping.
"Phew," Romelu Lukaku gasped, wiping his forehead which was gleaming like a lightbulb.
"We beat them 2-1 last time, but why did today feel so much easier?"
"I was thinking the same thing," Jesse Lingard chirped, bouncing on his toes. "We controlled it."
Ling smiled, slinging a towel over his shoulder. He waited for them to look at him.
"The boss got the tactics right," Ling said calmly. "But also... haven't we just gotten stronger?"
Lukaku paused, then grinned, slapping his massive thigh. "You're right! We are stronger! We bullied them!"
Ashley Young walked over, ruffling Ling's hair.
"You were brilliant today, kid. That dribble against Kante? I was watching from the back thinking, 'Thank god I don't have to mark him.' I would've been on the floor too."
Antonio Valencia smirked. "Don't say 'would have', Ashley. You wouldn't have made it past the first feint."
"Hey! Respect your elders!" Young laughed.
The group dissolved into good-natured banter. But Ling noticed one person standing slightly outside the circle.
Paul Pogba looked happy, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—a desire to be the main man.
Ling walked over and wrapped an arm around the Frenchman's shoulder.
"Paul was outstanding today," Ling said loudly, making sure everyone heard. "Did you see those switches of play? Without his distribution, I wouldn't have had the space to run. He ran the show."
Pogba's face lit up.
He puffed out his chest. "We did it together, brother. Next time, I get the goal, yeah?"
"Deal," Ling winked.
With veterans like Zlatan and Carrick in the dressing room, and young stars like Ling boosting egos, the harmony at United was at an all-time high.
Winning cures everything.
...
A few yards away, the Chelsea squad was imploding.
Thibaut Courtois ripped off his gloves and threw them onto the turf.
"I am not blaming anyone," the goalkeeper said, his voice dripping with accusation. "But you guys need to actually defend. If you let them take uncontested shots from the edge of the box, I can't save them. I am not a magician."
Antonio Rudiger, who had been marking space, looked down and muttered.
"It's not just the defense. You can't win if you don't score."
He glared at Alvaro Morata. "Why did you sky that shot? My grandmother could have scored that."
Morata snapped.
He turn around as his face flushed. "Oh, blame me? Fine! But how did the second goal happen, Toni? Have you ever seen a defender run like that? High-stepping like a show pony?"
Morata mimicked Rudiger's high-knee running style mockingly.
"Are you a hurdler or a footballer? You looked ridiculous!"
"Shut your mouth!" Rudiger stepped forward aggressively. "That is how I run! Why don't you say Sterling runs like a dinosaur? At least I tackle people! You spend the whole game falling over looking for fouls!"
"You're just shifting blame because you're useless!"
The two looked ready to throw punches.
Cesar Azpilicueta and Cesc Fabregas had to rush in, physically separating them.
"Stop it!" Gary Cahill roared. "The cameras are on us! Show some dignity!"
On the periphery, N'Golo Kante and Danny Drinkwater stood side by side in silence.
They looked at each other, a shared sadness in their eyes.
They were remembering Leicester City. They were remembering the miracle season. Back then, even when they lost, they hugged.
They were a family.
This? This was a collection of mercenaries fighting over a paycheck.
...
High above the chaos, in the Directors' Box, the air was conditioned and smelled of expensive cologne.
Roman Abramovich sat on a plush leather sofa and his face look anything but calm.
"Marina," the Russian billionaire said, his voice low and dangerous.
Marina Granovskaia, Chelsea's iron lady, flinched slightly. "Yes, Roman?"
"Last month, I told you to ask Jose if he would sell Ling to us. What was the result?"
Marina hesitated. She didn't want to deliver bad news. "I... I texted him. He was quite arrogant, Roman. He didn't even give a price."
"What did he say?"
"He said: 'Keep dreaming, Roman.'"
Abramovich didn't explode.
He didn't flip the table. Instead, he went strangely quiet. He stared down at Mourinho, who was celebrating on the pitch.
"My funds will be available in the summer," Abramovich said suddenly, slamming his hand onto the armrest.
"Go have a serious talk with Jose. I want that boy. I want Ling."
"And..." Abramovich's eyes glinted with a sudden, wild inspiration. "That's it!"
"What is it, Roman?"
"I can fix everything," he muttered, pacing the box. "I bring Ling to Chelsea. And I bring Jose back."
Marina's eye twitched.
"Excuse me?"
"Imagine it!" Abramovich gestured wildly. "Mourinho and Ling, together in Blue! We would be invincible!"
"Roman," Marina said carefully, "Jose manages United. He hates us right now. The fans called him Judas."
"Details!" Abramovich waved his hand dismissively. "Everyone has a price. After the interview, send a bottle of that 1982 Petrus to Jose's car. The one we keep in the trunk."
He turned back to the window, muttering to himself about his genius plan.
Marina sighed while massaging her temples.
Her boss was brilliant, but sometimes he lived on a different planet.
Bringing Mourinho back now would be like trying to sign Messi and Ronaldo to play for Arsene Wenger.
It was impossible.
But in Roman's world, impossible was just a starting negotiation!