Not long after Ling had settled into the private booth, the heavy wooden door creaked open again.
Two figures stepped out of the Manchester drizzle—a ruddy-faced old man with a legendary temper and a handsome man whose face had launched a thousand billboards.
"Sorry we're late, lad," Sir Alex Ferguson grumbled, shaking his umbrella with vigorous frustration.
"We were held up on the way. You know how congested Deansgate gets at 7 p.m. It's a bloody nightmare. I've made several suggestions to the mayor's office about the traffic flow, but the bastards never listen."
"No problem, Boss. I just arrived as well," Ling said, standing up to show respect. "Have you seen the news?"
He didn't need to specify which news.
The headline about Arsène Wenger was burning a hole in the internet.
"Yes," Ferguson sighed, hanging up his coat.
His expression was a complex tapestry of emotions—respect, sadness, and nostalgia.
"Actually, I knew about it before any of you. Arsène called me."
A heavy silence settled over the table as the three generations of Manchester United sat down.
"You know," Ferguson started, pouring himself a cup of tea, "I led Manchester United to thirteen league titles. I knocked Liverpool off their perch. But I never had a season without a single loss. That Invincibles record... that belongs to that old French sod."
He took a sip of tea, his eyes distant. "I'm glad to have had such a rival. Without him, the Premier League would have been much duller. He forced me to change, to adapt."
"Though his arguing skills were always rubbish," Ferguson added with a mischievous smirk. "Back in the day, he couldn't out-argue me or Mourinho to save his life, and it's still the same now. He's too polite."
"That's why so many fans supported his dismissal," Beckham chimed in softly.
"Supported? It was a disgrace," Ferguson snapped, his voice rising. "Arsène consistently led Arsenal into European competitions every year on a budget half the size of City or Chelsea. Yet he received unfair treatment from his own supporters. Those 'Wenger Out' banners... absolutely shameful behavior. They don't know what they're losing."
Unconsciously, Ferguson spoke at length, unburdening himself of the solidarity only fellow managers truly understand, while Ling and Beckham listened quietly, absorbing the history.
"Ah, look at me," Ferguson chuckled, breaking the mood. "When you get old, you tend to ramble. Let's eat first. I'm starving."
Uncle Wen arrived personally with the tray, beaming.
The reason "Outer Heaven" was so beloved by the football elite wasn't just its privacy; it was fundamentally due to Wen Shiling's exceptional skills.
He adapted Chinese cuisine to western palates without losing the soul of the food.
The table was soon filled with aromatic dishes: sizzling black pepper beef rolls that crackled on the plate, sesame lemon shrimp glistening under the lights, spicy hand-shredded chicken, steamed sea bass with ginger and scallions, and a mountain of fried rice.
Though lacking the pretentious, microscopic plating of a Michelin-starred restaurant, the dishes gave off a clean, comforting warmth that felt like home.
"Let's talk about something happier," Ferguson said, spearing a piece of tender chicken. "Ling, are you confident about winning the league title?"
Having undergone heart surgery, the old Scot usually had to strictly control his diet, but tonight he was attacking the food with the same ferocity he used to attack referees.
"Of course," Ling replied without hesitation, meeting the legend's gaze. "Both the gaffer and I are confident. We aren't letting City take this."
"Sir Bobby Charlton once asked me the same question in '93," Beckham wiped a smudge of sauce from the corner of his mouth, his voice tinged with nostalgia.
"My answer was exactly the same as yours. And that season, we ended the twenty-six-year wait."
"With thirty-two rounds completed, you boys have accumulated 91 points," Ferguson calculated, his mind still sharp as a tack.
"Just nine points away from reaching 100. Perhaps you'll create a remarkable record. God knows we need to shut those noisy neighbors up."
It was a staggering achievement.
With the massive capital injections into City and Chelsea, the strength gap between the top teams had narrowed significantly.
Maintaining such a winning run required insane consistency. Looking back, the board's decision to hire Mourinho—despite his baggage—seemed like a masterstroke.
"By the way," Beckham suddenly turned to Ling, switching into businessman mode. "There's a business dinner in Salford the day after tomorrow, there's gonna be a lot of investors, fashion moguls. Would you like to join me? It would be good for your profile."
Beckham meant well.
`He was currently building his own empire and thought Ling, with his rising stardom, should start networking.
But before Ling could even open his mouth, Ferguson slammed his teacup down.
"Absolutely not," Ferguson barked, the "Hairdryer" mode activating instantly. "Mourinho told me Ling has intensive training scheduled during the break. He's not going to some fancy gala to shake hands with suits."
Beckham blinked, reverting instantly to the scolded schoolboy he was in 1998.
"David, he is a footballer, not a model," Ferguson grumbled. "My philosophy hasn't changed. Players should devote themselves entirely to training. When not training, they should rest at home with family. Discipline. Focus. That is how you win titles, not by eating canapés in Salford."
The shadow of the "Flying Boot Incident" hung in the air. T
hat famous locker room bust-up had stemmed partly from Ferguson's frustration with Beckham's celebrity lifestyle and his relationship with Victoria.
The restaurant fell into an awkward silence, broken only by the clinking of chopsticks.
"Alright, Boss," Beckham replied with a casual, charming smile, diffusing the tension. He understood the old man's stubbornness better than anyone.
"Maybe another time then."
Ling remained silent, sipping his tea, but privately he was breathing a sigh of relief.
He hated those events.
The forced smiles, the shallow conversations, the people who didn't know a football from a melon.
He felt more like a zoo animal than a person at those galas.
'I am a professional football player,' Ling thought. 'My value is on the pitch, not on a billboard.'
The meal concluded with Beckham driving Ferguson home in his Range Rover, leaving Ling to chat briefly with Uncle Wen before heading back to his solitary life.
...
The next day, the two-week international break commenced.
Carrington Training Ground stood empty, the silence eerie compared to the usual hustle. Most of the squad had flown off to their countries—Pogba to France, De Gea to Spain, Lukaku to Belgium.
But not everyone.
Scott McTominay was sweating buckets on the training pitch alongside Ling.
Rui Faria, Mourinho's ruthless assistant, had designed a "holiday" regimen that felt more like a boot camp.
The focus was primarily on speed, agility, and core strength, punishing their bodies to maintain peak condition.
After the physical torture, they spent hours in the video room.
"Watch this," Ling said, pausing the tape on the giant screen.
They were analyzing Bayern Munich.
Ling scribbled furiously in his notebook.
Joshua Kimmich.
Currently Bayern's starting right-back, but really, he was a midfielder in disguise.
Mourinho had once said, "I believe Kimmich is a top-tier right-back, left-back, center-back—he can play any position!"
Ling chewed the end of his pen. Comparing Kimmich to Alexander-Arnold was night and day.
Arnold was a winger who couldn't defend; Kimmich was a tactical genius who could defend, pass, and press.
His defensive positioning was elite, ranking alongside Dani Carvajal and Dani Alves.
Getting past him wouldn't be as easy as the "Highway 66" at Old Trafford.
But there was blood in the water elsewhere.
Sven Ulreich.
Manuel Neuer, the best goalkeeper in the world, had fractured his foot against Real Madrid last April.
He was still out.
His replacement was Sven Ulreich, a solid keeper, but prone to nerves.
"The gap between Neuer and Ulreich," Ling muttered to McTominay, "is about the width of Keylor Navas."
"So, shoot on sight?" McTominay asked, nursing a water bottle.
"Exactly. Any space within thirty yards, we test him."
Then there was the tactical puzzle of the flanks.
Ling stared at the heat map of Bayern's recent games.
Their left side was a furnace.
Franck Ribéry, David Alaba, James Rodríguez, and Thiago Alcantara all drifted to that side.
It was an overload.
Bayern's primary attack was to overwhelm the right-back.
"If I play on the left," Ling mused, tracing the screen, "I face Kimmich. It's a 1v1 duel."
"But if the Boss switches me to the right..."
Ling's eyes narrowed.
If he played on the right wing, he would be matched up against David Alaba.
Alaba loved to attack.
If Alaba pushed forward, he would leave massive space behind him.
"Attack is the best form of defense," Ling whispered.
If he could pin Alaba back, he would cut off the supply line to Ribéry.
He could force Bayern to retreat.
It was a high-stakes gamble, forcing a chaotic shootout on that flank.
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MAN UNITED IS SO BACK!!! WE ARE WINNING THE LEAGUE GUYS!