Carrington — Manager's Office, Two Days After Spurs
The corridors at Carrington were quiet now. Players had filtered out. Lights hummed in the training rooms. Only a few offices glowed behind frosted glass.
Inside one of them, Mason Grant leaned back in his chair, one hand resting over a notepad of scribbled formations. Outside, the dusk rain whispered against the windows.
Then a knock — firm, familiar.
"Come in."
Wayne Rooney stepped through the door. Hoodie pulled up, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like a man who'd spent the last two hours wrestling ghosts on the treadmill.
Grant didn't stand. He just nodded.
"Sit, Wazza."
Rooney dropped into the chair opposite. He didn't speak straight away. The silence wasn't awkward. Just... thick.
⚽ The Conversation
Grant:
"You ran more than anyone on Sunday. Covered ground like a 25-year-old. But I can't keep playing you like one."
Rooney gave a tired grin.
"Figured that was coming."
Grant tapped his pen against the desk.
"You're too intelligent to just be a runner. I want you in the pocket. False nine — not as a luxury. As the axis."
Rooney raised a brow.
"Even with Lukaku and Dybala knocking?"
"Especially with them," Grant said, leaning forward. "They run. You read. You dictate. That deeper role? It's not a demotion. It's evolution."
A pause.
"Sir Alex told me," Grant added, "that if you ever trusted someone, you'd follow them through fire. But getting your trust? That's the real game."
Rooney looked up slowly.
"I'm not here to chase numbers anymore," he said. "I just want this place to mean something again. If that means playing ten yards deeper — I'll do it."
Grant nodded once.
"Then let's build this version of you. The last version was a hammer. This one? Scalpel."
Rooney stood, shook his hand. Firm. Brief. No fanfare.
As he reached the door, Grant called out:
"Wazza — one more thing."
Rooney turned.
"That final pass? It's going to define your season."
Rooney grinned over his shoulder.
"Then I'll make it count."
Carrington – Late Evening, Treatment Wing Balcony
The complex had mostly emptied. Staff gone. Players home. Even the physios had clocked out.
But up on the small stone balcony that overlooked Carrington's back pitch, Mason Grant stood alone, coat zipped up against the breeze. A black espresso steamed in his hand.
Then — soft footsteps behind him.
Dybala. Tracksuit zipped, hair wet from the shower. He didn't say anything. Just stood beside the manager. Close, but not too close.
They watched the rain roll in from the edge of the trees. Beyond the lights, the pitch looked like a canvas of fog and dew.
🤝 The Exchange
Grant:
"You strike a ball like it never hurt you."
Dybala let out a faint chuckle — not sarcastic. Just quiet.
"That's because I strike before it has time to think."
Grant nodded, eyes still on the field.
"Do you remember what you did after scoring Sunday?"
Dybala turned his head, unsure.
"Didn't celebrate. Just pointed at me."
"You said to me once," Dybala murmured, "'I won't need minutes — I'll need moments.'"
Grant looked at him now.
"And you delivered one. But you do know that now... they'll expect more."
Dybala shrugged, eyes on the rain.
"Let them. I came here to be seen. Not stared at."
Grant sipped his espresso. Then:
"I'll protect your freedom on the pitch — but I'll ask more of you, too. You're not here to be a luxury. You're a weapon."
"I'm ready," Dybala replied. "I don't need to wear the armband to lead."
"No," Grant said softly. "Just the moment."
A beat.
Dybala turned to leave, then hesitated.
"You know, I've never had a manager who asked me what I see, not just what I do."
Grant replied without looking:
"That's because I don't want a soldier. I want a co-author."
Dybala smiled to himself, then disappeared into the corridor's light. The door clicked shut. Grant stayed by the balcony a moment longer.
The night was cold, but the storm had passed.
Carrington – Boot Room, Late Afternoon
The boot room wasn't meant for meetings.
It smelled of leather, turf, and damp laces. The walls were bare, save for faded fixture charts and a line of squad-issued cleats. But Mason Grant chose this place for a reason — it was real. No whiteboards, no agents, no press.
Just history and truth.
Inside, Rio Ferdinand leaned against the boot racks, arms crossed. Across from him sat Nemanja Vidić, laces undone, shin pads in hand, still sweating from extra training. Grant entered without ceremony.
"Close the door," he said.
Vidić kicked it shut with his heel.
⚔️ The Conversation
Grant:
"You both know what you are to this club. You also know time doesn't wait for legends."
Vidić nodded, expression unreadable.Ferdinand just listened — eyes sharp, arms still crossed.
"I don't believe in tearing things down to build. I believe in layering. But that means we transition with control. With clarity. And with your blessing."
Ferdinand:
"You're thinking long-term already."
"Of course," Grant said. "This club lives on timing. Not panic."
He looked at Vidić.
"Nemanja — Van Dijk is going to shadow you. He's not your replacement. He's your understudy."
Vidić didn't flinch.
"Good," he said. "Let him bleed a little in training."
Grant turned to Rio.
"Marquinhos will rotate in behind you. He's quicker. Reads the game differently. I want him to learn your voice, not just your technique."
Ferdinand nodded slowly.
"You're building a defence that talks to each other."
"And listens," Grant replied. "Because structure without communication is just choreography."
🔥 Setting the Standard
"Starting next month," Grant continued, "I'm empowering a leadership group. Not just captains. Mentors. Standard bearers."
He stepped closer.
"That means if players slack off — if Rooney doesn't track, if Cancelo gambles, if Lukaku switches off — they answer to you before they answer to me."
Vidić cracked his knuckles.
"Good."
Ferdinand finally spoke, more softly:
"But you know they won't all respect the past. Not automatically."
Grant smirked.
"Then make them understand. Show them what United was, and what it still is."
🧠 The Moment of Unity
The three stood there for a quiet moment — no handshake, no ceremony. Just mutual clarity.
Then Grant said, almost to himself:
"Sir Alex told me, leadership isn't volume. It's velocity. It's who moves first when the moment cracks open."
Vidić gave a rare grin.
"Then let's move."