When Claire stepped back onto the Old Trafford pitch for training, his emotions were complicated.
After nearly a month and a half of paid leave—something any Premier League player would kill for—he had somehow managed to gain more popularity while lying in a hospital bed.
As he sat on the bench, catching his breath while the medical team from Wellington Private Hospital changed his bandages, Claire glanced around at his teammates. Their hungry, calculating stares made him swallow hard.
They all knew: Claire was currently the most talked-about player at Manchester United. Stick close to him, and the swarming media would inevitably point their cameras your way.
Carlos Queiroz, hands on his hips, strolled over with a bemused expression. Seeing Claire wince as the nurses tended to his wounds, the assistant coach couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy.
This wasn't just any medical team—it was courtesy of the London city government. The only other United player who'd ever gotten this kind of VIP treatment was David Beckham, and he was long gone to Real Madrid.
"You could've just stayed in the hospital for this. Why push yourself to train today?"
Before Claire could answer, Costa Mayor—who'd been quietly observing—jumped in with a nervous laugh.
"Ah, Coach Queiroz! Such an honor to meet you. Actually, it was my idea for Claire to come today. With the match tomorrow, I figured it'd be good for him to show face, and—well—"
He gestured toward the stands.
The first three rows were packed with reporters. What was supposed to be a low-key training match had turned into a glorified exhibition game, with both Team A and Team B deliberately trading flashy goals to milk the attention.
Cristiano Ronaldo and Park Ji-sung were the worst offenders. Every time they scored, they celebrated like they'd won the Champions League, making sure to high-five every journalist in sight.
Queiroz's face darkened—until he remembered Sir Alex Ferguson's words:
"If things get out of hand, don't lose your temper. If the board plays this right, we could pocket £10 million just from the next three matches' broadcasting rights. And if Channel 4 picks up our digital streaming deal? We'll be swimming in cash by winter."
Sighing, Queiroz shot Claire a look of grudging admiration.
If Ronaldo was United's most promising player, Claire was its most marketable.
Nike and Adidas were already fighting over him. Royal Bank of Scotland had paid £4 million just to make their PR nightmare go away—with the caveat that any deal involving Claire had to include a sponsorship for United (courtesy of Malcolm Glazer's ruthless negotiating).
And thanks to the media frenzy around the Manchester Coordination Fund heist, all of Europe now knew United had a **"hero player"**—even if that "hero" had only played two substitute appearances in his entire career.
Yet, somehow, the hype had made Old Trafford tickets sell out in minutes. Glazer had even colluded with scalpers to inflate prices by 35%.
Then came the bombshell: Rupert Murdoch's News Corp, in partnership with 20th Century Fox, had paid £10 million for the exclusive next-day streaming rights to United's entire season.
This was unprecedented—streaming wouldn't become mainstream until 2010, and even then, it was never next-day broadcasts. The Premier League had just made history.
For Ferguson and Queiroz, it was a "painful blessing."
The media circus had alleviated United's debt crisis, giving Ferguson funds to strengthen the squad. But it came at a cost:
United 3-0 Portsmouth Blackburn 0-1 United (a nervy win) Sheffield United 1-2 United (last-minute winner)
The Champions League group stage was a breeze—but the Premier League grind was where the real pressure lay.
And as Claire's fame skyrocketed, so did the distractions.
Headlines like "Musical Prodigy," "Football's Heartthrob," and "United's Golden Boy" flooded the press. Even Queiroz—who'd barely interacted with Claire—had been ambushed by reporters at his own home.
("Yes, I'm friends with Denis Irwin. No, that doesn't mean I know his nephew!")
The team's form had dipped. More media = worse focus = poorer performances—a universal truth in football.
Yet, for the sake of cold, hard cash, even Ferguson had bent. And Queiroz had no choice but to follow.
Just as he turned to leave, a stunning brunette appeared behind Claire, massaging his shoulders with a familiarity that made Queiroz's blood boil.
He recognized her instantly: Lucy Pinder, MUTV's rising star reporter. Dubbed "United's Stimulant" by fans, her mid-match sideline interviews had become a cultural phenomenon.
"Claire," Queiroz said through gritted teeth, "if you want to perform tomorrow against Chelsea, I suggest you save your energy tonight."
"If I see you struggling, I'll make sure your debut becomes a very public humiliation."
Claire responded with a sheepish grin, but Lucy's face flushed crimson.
She knew the unspoken warning: Claire's performance tomorrow could make or break United's streaming deal.
If she dared distract him tonight, her career at MUTV would be over before sunrise.
(Her boss had already dangled the ultimate carrot: a potential move to ESPN if the Channel 5 deal went through.)
Swallowing her pride, Lucy doubled down on her "attentiveness."
Meanwhile, Claire was deep in conversation with Ronaldo.
"Did you hear? Chelsea's owner is offering bonuses for every goal scored against us!" Ronaldo said, eyes gleaming.
"Damn. Wish Glazer would take notes from Abramovich," Claire muttered.
"At least Ricardo Carvalho's injured. But Lampard and Drogba are still nightmares. Hope you can pull off another assist like the one against Arsenal."
Claire's smile faltered.
(So Ronaldo wasn't here to check on him—just to pressure him into playing provider.)
Soon, the rest of United's forwards descended, showering Claire with faux concern.
Even Ryan Giggs—usually aloof—leaned in with a "friendly" offer:
"Pass me the ball tomorrow, no matter how bad the angle, and I'll introduce you to the finest women in Wales."
("Irish football, Welsh women"—a famous saying in British football circles.)
Claire forced a polite smile.
Giggs' reputation as a serial womanizer was second only to Rooney's. The man was currently embroiled in a scandal with a Welsh model—hardly someone Claire wanted as a wingman.
"So," Costa whispered as the crowd dispersed, "how's it feel being the golden goose?"
"Relax," Claire said dryly. "I know my place. I won't let the hype get to me."
"Good. Because tomorrow's performance? It's not just about football."
Costa's voice dropped.
"It's about how many records your single breaks."
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