"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.
