Inside the locker room, the mood had changed.
Same faces. Same team.
But the way they looked at Alessandro now was entirely different.
Ashley Young, captain for the night, walked over the moment Alessandro stepped in.
"Get in here, lad," he grinned, throwing an arm around his shoulders as they entered together.
A cheer went up inside the dressing room.
Several players stood and clapped. One whistle followed. Then another.
They were welcoming not a rookie, but the hero of the first half.
Because this wasn't just about the goal.
It was about the control. The reading of the game. The line-breaking interception. The calmness under pressure.
On both ends of the pitch, Alessandro had owned that half.
Phil Jones and Michael Keane both came over for high-fives and a quick hug.
"Brilliant stuff, mate," Keane said.
Even Lindegaard, the usually reserved keeper, gave him a nod and said, "Kept us clean."
The contrast was sharp.
Just days ago, Alessandro had walked into this locker room a youth team call-up. A name on the teamsheet. Nothing more.
Now?
Now he belonged.
This is what ability does. It cuts through doubt, wipes away reputation, and speaks for itself.
No one in that room saw Alessandro as just a teenager anymore.
Not after tonight.
---
Manchester United's midfield depth wasn't thin, but it wasn't untouchable either.
In Ferguson's standard 4-4-2, the double pivot typically rotated between Carrick and Fletcher. When fit, Scholes or Park Ji-sung slotted in as backups.
But Fletcher's health had been shaky all season.
Cleverley was inconsistent.
And Park, despite his effort, wasn't getting younger.
Watching Alessandro tonight, more than one player in that room quietly recalibrated their expectations.
If the club was going to shift its midfield order—Alessandro had just thrown his name directly into the conversation.
---
Not that he cared much for locker room politics.
Alessandro had his own goal in mind.
He didn't want a spot on the bench.
He wanted a place in the XI.
And tonight, he had taken a major step toward it.
---
Sir Alex Ferguson walked into the room.
The moment the door opened, the chatter died down.
He looked around the squad quickly—then his eyes landed on Alessandro.
"You," he said, voice steady, "well done."
That was all.
But everyone knew what it meant.
Ferguson was old school. Praise didn't come wrapped in bows.
Alessandro smiled. He knew what he had earned.
More importantly, he knew what was coming next.
There was no way Ferguson could now offer him the lowball youth contract they'd prepared a few weeks ago.
After tonight, Alessandro had taken control of the negotiations.
And he knew it.
---
Ferguson, however, wasn't thinking about contracts.
He was thinking about potential.
Real, game-changing potential.
He'd watched Alessandro closely during the first half—and then again on replay at the break. Not just the goal itself, but everything leading up to it.
On the broadcast, the cameras never caught Alessandro's movement before the ball dropped at the far post.
But the training footage did.
Alessandro had seen the play unfolding before the cross had even been launched.
His movement was direct. Unhesitating.
Not reactive. Predictive.
Ferguson leaned back on the bench, deep in thought.
Could a seventeen-year-old really see the game like that?
It wasn't just the interception.
Not just the pass.
It was his reading of the field, of where the ball would be—not where it was.
His brain worked like a simulation. Seeing the runs. Mapping the zones. Anticipating the deflections.
That goal wasn't about speed or power.
It was about vision.
---
From a purely technical standpoint, Alessandro was solid—but not exceptional yet. His shooting and passing were developing.
But his game intelligence?
That was elite.
He read danger before it formed.
He read passes before they left the boot.
He found the spaces everyone else ignored—because they didn't see them coming.
That was Alessandro's real capital.
Not flair. Not flash.
But a brain that played the match three seconds faster than anyone else.
---
Ferguson had seen a lot of talents. Some were instantly obvious—like watching Messi touch the ball. The brilliance leapt off the screen.
Others were quieter.
You didn't notice them until they'd already shaped the entire game.
Alessandro was that kind.
Unremarkable at first glance.
But inside him was the same kind of fire.
The kind you could build a midfield around.
And now Ferguson knew.
Keeping him locked in a defensive role would be a waste.
This wasn't just a holding midfielder.
This was a conductor.
---