"Play around him, do you understand?"
Sir Alex Ferguson's voice was calm, yet the weight in his words pressed against the training ground air like rainclouds just before a storm.
He was pointing straight at Dybala.
Every eye turned.
It wasn't just the academy lads or coaching staff. Wayne Rooney paused mid-stretch. Rio Ferdinand, sweat clinging to his brow, stood taller. Even Carrick, always reserved, glanced Dybala's way with something approaching curiosity—perhaps even respect.
The red training vest Dybala wore clung to him like a second skin. It marked him unmistakably as one of the first-team starters.
Paul Pogba stood just outside the circle, a bib draped over one shoulder, pretending to focus on tying his laces.
But his eyes? Locked on Dybala.
His envy was thinly veiled, simmering beneath the surface.
They had both come up from the youth system. Pogba had been around longer, appeared on the bench countless times, traveled with the squad, warmed up in front of roaring Premier League crowds—yet the minutes never came.
Instead, most weekends found him back on the pitch for the reserves.
Then there was Dybala.
He had barely arrived.
And yet here he was—Europa League appearances already under his belt, and if the whispers were true, being readied for the Northwest Derby.
Liverpool versus Manchester United.
An occasion soaked in history and hatred.
The kind of match that defines seasons. And careers.
Ferguson's attention to Dybala wasn't a passing experiment. It was deliberate. Strategic. And public.
Pogba clenched his jaw.
Should've been me.
He tried to rationalize it, tried to convince himself it was because his agent had demanded too much. I'm the talent. I'm the one who should be breaking through.
But deep down, the doubt gnawed.
Worse yet, Dybala hadn't even signed a professional contract yet.
That was the talk inside Carrington's walls: Dybala was still on youth terms. But after the Ajax match, that wouldn't last long.
The club was moving fast now.
Manchester United wasn't naive. They understood the game beyond the pitch—the economics of visibility, sponsorship, and global reach.
And Dybala? He wasn't just a promising midfielder. He was an investment.
Half-Spanish, with the look of a film star and the composure of a seasoned professional. The press had already latched onto him. The back pages called him "The Quiet Maestro." In Spain, a few whispers began to link him to Iniesta's intelligence, but with a sharper edge.
And off the field?
There was no agent.
Yet.
---
David Gill closed the folder slowly.
The room was quiet. Only the occasional creak of leather from his chair as he shifted.
Sir Alex stood across from him, arms crossed, his expression firm.
"Well?" Gill asked.
"He's a starter," Ferguson said without hesitation. "Not someday. Now."
Gill nodded slowly. That answer had consequences.
"If we're talking starter," Gill murmured, "then we can't give him the standard youth upgrade. We'll need to match his real value."
Sir Alex offered a thin smile. "Or someone else will."
There was silence again, heavy with understanding.
Gill tapped his fingers against the armrest. "He doesn't have an agent, does he?"
"No."
"Bloody nightmare." Gill sighed. "You want me negotiating directly with an 18-year-old during a fixture run?"
"He'll need a broker," Ferguson said. "Sooner rather than later."
Gill's eyes narrowed. "And you're sure you want him in the squad for Anfield?"
Ferguson didn't blink. "I'm not preparing him for it. He's already prepared."
---
Elsewhere in Manchester, a different conversation was brewing.
A more subtle game.
Inside a velvet-lined booth at San Carlo, a favorite haunt of agents and rising stars, Mino Raiola leaned forward across the table.
"Paul," he said softly, "tell me about this Dybala lad."
Pogba stirred his coffee distractedly, his scowl deepening.
"Not much to tell. He just got here."
Raiola's eyes twinkled.
"No agent, I hear."
Pogba gave a half-nod, then glanced toward the window, watching a Bentley pull up.
"I think some of the other lads are trying to help their agents get in."
"Well," Raiola said, lifting his espresso with a flick of his wrist, "maybe you can help yours."
Pogba raised an eyebrow.
Raiola didn't push further. He didn't need to. The idea had already been planted.
---
Back at Carrington, the situation had grown... crowded.
After training, Dybala barely had time to remove his boots before another figure approached.
"Hey," De Gea said, casual as ever. "You free tonight?"
Dybala glanced up, already expecting it.
He managed a dry smile. "You here as a scout for Mendes too?"
De Gea laughed sheepishly. "He might've asked."
Over the past 48 hours, the number of conversations Dybala had fielded off the pitch rivaled those on it. Business cards. Firm handshakes. Slick suits waiting outside the complex. Some had flown in from Milan, others from Madrid, even one from New York.
It was a feeding frenzy.
And Dybala? He was the chum in the water.
But unlike most young players, he didn't feel flattered.
He felt... surrounded.
"I just want to play," he'd said to Carrick earlier that morning.
Carrick had patted him on the back. "Then make sure whoever's speaking for you wants that too."
He remembered that now as he walked down the corridor toward the locker room, boots in hand.
Inside his bag: nine different business cards.
Including one from Mendes' office.
---
Behind the scenes, Manchester United's executives were preparing their formal offer.
A long-term deal. Not youth terms. A full professional contract.
And not because of sentiment.
Because of strategy.
Dybala wasn't just another promising midfielder. He had technical precision, vision in tight spaces, an uncanny ability to shift pace without obvious movement. But more than that—he had image.
Commercial potential.
Half the marketing department had already done the math: Dybala as a starter meant TV rights spikes in Spain, endorsement offers from European sponsors, and massive draw on social media.
In Ferguson's words, "He'll pay back ten times what we put in."
But there was a condition.
He had to start.
He had to matter.
If he didn't? The contract wasn't just a risk. It was a loss.
---
That night, Dybala sat alone in his apartment near Deansgate.
He stared at the stack of cards beside his keys.
Each one offered something—connections, contracts, endorsements, dreams. All of them implied the same thing: We'll take care of you.
But Dybala knew better.
Most wanted a share, not to share responsibility.
He leaned back, exhaled.
Maybe Mendes.
Maybe not.
But one way or another, he'd need someone by his side when he walked into that meeting with David Gill.
Because the next signature he penned wouldn't just shape his salary.
It would shape the next chapter of his career.
And maybe—just maybe—the future of Manchester United.
---