"He's really pushing himself too hard."
From the upper floor of Carrington's administration wing, David Gill stood beside the window, watching the training pitch below. His eyes narrowed as he observed the lean figure of Dybala pressing into yet another sprint—shirt soaked, curls clinging to his forehead, blue eyes sharp and focused even through fatigue.
No distractions. No half-measures.
Just relentless commitment.
Gill let out a quiet exhale. He'd seen enough.
"I should speak to our little genius," he muttered.
The words carried more weight than they seemed.
Gill was already preparing for the inevitable. When Sir Alex Ferguson left the club—and that day was no longer far off—there would be changes. Serious ones.
The Glazers would take the opportunity to restructure.
Old management swept out, fresh appointments pushed in. Gill's own position as Chief Executive would be one of the first to go. He knew that.
But legacy wasn't just built in boardrooms.
It was found on the pitch.
If Ferguson's final contribution to Manchester United was to deliver one last midfield leader, and if Gill could secure that future now—before the tides of power shifted—then both of them could leave something behind worth remembering.
And Dybala… he could be that legacy.
Ferguson had been right before. When he insisted on Rio Ferdinand, many had scoffed at the record-breaking fee. But Ferdinand became the cornerstone of United's defense for a generation. And when the club spent over ten million euros on a teenage Portuguese winger with dazzling feet and raw arrogance, Arsène Wenger had publicly mocked them.
The result?
Cristiano Ronaldo.
Ballon d'Or winner. Global icon. A return worth far more than any transfer fee.
Now, Ferguson was saying something similar again—this time about Dybala.
A future core. A generational player.
Gill didn't need to be convinced.
---
Outside, the wind carried the sharp bite of early winter as Gill stepped onto the training pitch, his polished leather shoes sinking slightly into the damp grass.
Dybala spotted him almost immediately. He wiped his brow with the back of his wrist and jogged over, boots leaving thin smears in the turf.
"You're Mr. Gill?" he asked, slightly breathless.
"Just David," Gill replied with a cordial wave. "No need for titles out here."
The conversation wasn't casual, but it wasn't confrontational either. There was an unspoken recognition between them—one of timing, of opportunity.
"You know the club is preparing a contract for you," Gill began. "But this one's not like the youth terms you signed earlier. This is... different. This is real business."
Dybala nodded slowly.
"The figures, clauses, image rights, bonus structures—they all get more complicated now. You'll need someone on your side. A professional. An agent."
Dybala wiped his palms on his shorts.
The thought had occurred to him, of course. Especially with the number of business cards piling up in his apartment. Everyone wanted a piece of him. But right now?
His focus wasn't off the pitch.
It was on Sunday.
Liverpool.
"I understand," he said. "But let's talk about that after Anfield. For now, I only want to beat them."
Gill raised an eyebrow. "You're confident."
Dybala gave a small grin. "I'll do better at Anfield than I've ever done before, David."
There was no arrogance in his voice. Just calm belief.
Gill chuckled. "Most players wait to sign a contract after a great match. You're gambling on delivering first."
"I'm not gambling," Dybala said simply. "I'm preparing."
---
Back inside Carrington, Sir Alex Ferguson was not preparing contracts.
He was thinking about the lineup.
And hesitating.
Darren Fletcher had just been ruled out for the season. Surgery again. His body had betrayed him one time too many.
That left the midfield stretched.
Carrick was steady but aging. Paul Scholes had returned from retirement to plug gaps, not dominate 90-minute battles. Cleverley was promising but inconsistent. Park Ji-sung could cover space, press intelligently—but didn't offer enough control in possession.
And then there was Dybala.
Seventeen.
A standout in the Europa League, yes. But this was different.
This was Liverpool.
The Double Red rivalry wasn't just a game. It was war in boots. Tackles snapped harder. Pressure suffocated every touch. Anfield would roar like a lion's den, and Dybala would be the cub walking in alone.
Could he handle it?
Could he dictate rhythm in the most hostile atmosphere in English football?
Ferguson's doubt wasn't personal. It was tactical. Strategic.
And yet…
Mike Phelan entered the office without knocking, flipping open his notes.
"I assumed you'd made your mind up already, Alex," he said, sitting down.
Ferguson leaned back in his chair, arms folded.
"I trust the lad. But even trust needs context."
"He's your surprise weapon," Phelan said. "No one expected him in the Europa League, and look how that turned out."
"He's not a surprise anymore," Ferguson replied. "Now, they'll man-mark him. Press him. Kick him, if they can."
"All the more reason to keep him in. If we're hesitating, what do you think Kenny Dalglish is doing?"
Ferguson looked away, thoughtful.
"Our training this week revolved around that midfield shape. Carrick at the base. Scholes floating. Dybala as the pivot between them. Changing that now means changing the entire dynamic."
"Then why change it?"
Ferguson smiled, the kind that hinted at both approval and annoyance.
"You're awfully supportive of him these days."
Phelan laughed. "I've seen a lot of talented kids. Most believe their ability is enough. Dybala trains like he has none. That's rare."
"So you're a fan now."
"Damn right I am."
Ferguson turned his chair toward the window, watching Dybala from above as the young midfielder finished a rondo drill with astonishing footwork and spatial timing.
"He's composed. Sharp. Reads pressure better than most seasoned midfielders."
"Then play him, Alex."
Ferguson stayed silent a beat longer.
"You know," he said finally, "when we signed Cristiano, I didn't start him in this match right away. Thought he was too raw."
"And he proved you wrong."
Ferguson gave a half-smile. "I wouldn't mind being proven wrong again."
---
That night, as Carrington's floodlights dimmed and the final echo of boots left the grass, Dybala remained.
Alone.
He jogged one final lap around the pitch—not for fitness, but clarity.
He wasn't naïve. He could feel the weight of the decision hanging in the air.
Ferguson was hesitating.
And he understood why.
But inside him, there was no hesitation.
Not about the contract.
Not about the lineup.
Not about Anfield.
He was ready.
He had to be.
Because if Sunday went the way he imagined—if he stepped onto that pitch at Anfield and showed the world what Sir Alex saw in him—then everything would change.
Not just his contract.
Not just his place in the squad.
But how the world spoke about Alessandro Dybala.
---