Old Trafford.
The final whistle had blown, but the applause lingered.
Manchester United fans, usually quick to beat the traffic, stood and clapped, savoring the emphatic 3-0 victory.
For these working-class fans, ninety minutes of football was the essential escape from the grind of daily life.
When the team won, the beer tasted colder, the work week felt shorter, and life felt manageable.
But on the sidelines, one man felt the weight of the world crushing him.
Ronald Koeman stood frozen, a dazed expression plastered on his face.
His pre-match confidence—the swagger of the "Giant Killer"—had evaporated, replaced by the cold realization of defeat.
He looked at the scoreboard. 3-0.
Will I lose every match against the Big Six? he wondered.
During the summer transfer window, he had spent £150 million—a fortune for a club of Everton's stature.
He had built the team around Gylfi Sigurðsson. Yet, looking at the league table, they were drifting toward the relegation zone.
If this continued, he wouldn't even last until Christmas to open his presents.
Koeman shook hands with Mourinho, his grip limp.
He stared numbly at the Portuguese manager, a man he once admired, sinking into a deep, dark well of self-doubt.
Near the tunnel, a quieter, more poignant scene was unfolding.
Wayne Rooney, the prodigal son who had returned to blue, stripped off his sweaty Everton jersey.
He handed it to the teenager in red standing before him.
"Keep going, lad," Rooney said, his voice raspy.
Truth be told, looking at Jeremy Ling, Rooney felt a sharp pang of envy.
It wasn't jealousy of Ling's technical skills—Rooney, in his prime, had possessed touch and vision that could rival anyone in history.
No, he envied the time.
He envied the spring in the legs, the limitless energy, the feeling that the body could do whatever the mind commanded.
That vitality, once lost, could never be reclaimed.
"Thank you, Wazza," Ling said, accepting the jersey with both hands, treating it like the relic it was.
The two chatted as they walked toward the player tunnel, the legend of the past walking alongside the hope of the future, their figures gradually fading into the shadows of the stadium.
...
Half an hour later, the post-match press conference room was stifling.
Ronald Koeman sat behind the microphone, his face grim.
The reporters were sharks, smelling blood in the water.
They fired pointed questions about his tactics, his spending, and his job security.
Koeman suppressed his rising anger and finally spoke.
"In the first half, the opponents pressed from the back. We adjusted our formation to achieve the desired effect and even had scoring opportunities, but unfortunately, we failed to capitalize on them. A minor defensive lapse... that is what cost us."
He paused, looking around the room, seemingly trying to convince himself as much as the press.
"I don't want to blame the players, because everyone makes mistakes. Actually, looking at the situation on the pitch, we didn't play that poorly. The scoreline... it doesn't tell the whole story. I hope everyone can be patient."
The reporters nearly laughed out loud.
'Koeman is as eloquent as ever', they thought.
'Give him five more minutes of talking, and he'd probably convince himself he won the match.'
...
Meanwhile, in the Home Press Room...
The atmosphere was entirely different.
Jose Mourinho sat back, relaxed.
The British media, usually so vicious, were purring like kittens.
They never attacked when United won; they only sharpened their knives for defeats.
"On the surface, it looks like we won easily," Mourinho said, leaning into the microphone, playing the role of the perfectionist. "But that wasn't actually the case. The match was far more difficult than the score suggests."
"We still have players dealing with injuries. This performance? It is far from sufficient in my view. The league can create illusions. We must remain humble."
A reporter from The Guardian raised a hand.
"Mr. Mourinho, it's expected that Zlatan Ibrahimović won't return until 2018. With Lukaku scoring freely, has Zlatan been excluded from your plans?"
Mourinho's eyes lit up. He wagged a finger.
"No, no, no. I can tell you responsibly—Zlatan is recovering very quickly. He even participated in team training recently. And we have already signed a new contract extension."
A murmur went through the room.
"If nothing unexpected happens," Mourinho continued, dropping the bombshell, "he will be in the squad in October. He will use facts to silence those who believe his injuries have finished him."
He prepared to stand up.
"Why?" another reporter shouted. "Why renew the contract of an injured 35-year-old?"
Mourinho paused at the door.
A faint, enigmatic smile appeared on his face.
"Because we believe he is still a formidable animal."
...
The Manchester United players didn't head home to their luxury apartments.
Instead, they showered, changed, and gathered at the Carrington car park.
They had an important appointment.
Welcoming the King back.
During the Europa League match against Anderlecht in April, Zlatan Ibrahimović had landed awkwardly.
His knee had buckled, looking grotesque as it bent inward.
The diagnosis: a severe ACL tear. For a man of his age, it was supposed to be a career-ender.
Most mortals would have retired.
But Zlatan was not most mortals.
Through scientific rigor and sheer willpower, his recovery had been miraculous.
He defied medical timelines.
He was already back in the gym, kicking bags and practicing taekwondo with Jeremy Ling.
Today was the final check-up at the Manchester Royal Infirmary before his full reintegration.
The players piled into cars, gifts in hand.
But not everyone went.
Anthony Martial stood by his car, watching his teammates leave.
A sour feeling rose in his throat.
He looked at Lukaku, the man who had taken his starting spot. He thought of Zlatan, the man who had taken his number 9 shirt the previous season.
Now, Zlatan was coming back to take his minutes.
Martial lingered for a long while, isolated in the parking lot, before silently getting into his car and driving the opposite direction.
When the team arrived at the VIP ward, they paused outside the door.
Zlatan was in the middle of a media interview with a Swedish outlet.
They leaned in to eavesdrop.
"Am I worried about returning?" Zlatan's booming voice echoed through the door.
"No. Lions don't recover like humans."
The players outside stifled giggles.
"I will return better. Stronger. That is the only option," Zlatan continued. "When I said I would dominate Sweden, I did it by breakfast. By lunch, I ruled Europe. And by dinner—the world."
"As for matches? I play with my mind. My knees... they just need to follow along."
Ling, standing by the door jamb, clicked his tongue.
The big Swede hadn't changed a bit.
The ego was massive, bordering on comedy, yet delivered with such conviction that you had to believe him.
After the reporters were ushered out, the team burst into the room.
"ZLATAN!"
The sterile hospital ward instantly descended into chaos.
Ibrahimović, sitting on the edge of the bed looking more fit than most healthy men, hugged each of his teammates.
When it was Romelu Lukaku's turn, the big Belgian looked a bit sheepish.
There was an elephant in the room—the jersey number.
"Actually, Zlatan..." Lukaku started, rubbing the back of his neck. "When I joined, I wanted the number 10. But Wazza had it. So I took 9. Now that Wazza is gone..."
Ibrahimović waved a massive hand, cutting him off.
He gave Lukaku a firm pat on the shoulder.
"You keep the 9. You are scoring. The number 10 is open now that Rooney has left. That is for me. I upgrade."
He then turned to Jeremy Ling, grabbing the youngster in a bear hug that nearly cracked a rib.
"I've been watching the matches," Zlatan said, looking Ling in the eye. "You've been doing really well, kid. My taekwondo lessons haven't gone to waste."
"You better hurry up and recover, Zlatan," Ling grinned, catching his breath. "I've already scored two goals. I'm catching up."
"Tch," Zlatan scoffed, feigning disdain but unable to hide the glint of approval in his eyes.
"Just wait. I will surpass your season tally in a single match."
In truth, Zlatan was secretly astonished.
He had predicted Ling would need six months to adapt to the Premier League.
The kid had done it in one.
This ignited a fire in the veteran. He absolutely couldn't lose to a teenager.
If he did, his "God of Manchester" persona would crumble.
Amid the laughter and chatter, the squad eventually departed, leaving the hospital buzzing.
As the nurses watched the millionaires leave, one whispered to another, "You know, for a team of superstars, they actually seem to like each other."