Sir Alex Ferguson sat on the bench with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable even as cameras repeatedly zoomed in on him.
Carlos Queiroz, as the person who understood Ferguson's thoughts best, knew exactly what the boss was pondering.
Though his tenure at Sporting Lisbon hadn't been stellar, Queiroz was still a former head coach. The current situation was clear—Claire , as a starting player, had become Chelsea's obvious target.
In the first fifteen minutes, Claire's defense had been airtight. But as the relentless pace of United's attacks wore on, his stamina visibly waned.
Despite correctly anticipating Chelsea's moves several times, Claire's body simply couldn't keep up.
"Bring Claire off," Queiroz said bluntly in front of the entire coaching staff. "If this continues, neither his health nor the team's chances look good."
He knew these were Ferguson's unspoken thoughts. Though the Scotsman held absolute authority at United, politics lurked beneath the surface. Some were always waiting for a chance to undermine him.
Claire had been Ferguson's signing, but starting him today wasn't the boss's ideal choice. The financial forces backing Claire were simply too powerful—Royal Bank of Scotland's insurance sponsorship alone was enough to make any Premier League club kneel.
Not to mention the unprecedented digital broadcasting rights deal in the works. If successful, Ferguson would be the pioneer—a groundbreaking move for English football.
So Queiroz voiced what Ferguson couldn't.
The boss didn't respond immediately, instead scanning the faces around him.
As if on cue, Claire was brutally shouldered to the ground by Makélélé, rolling several times.
Old Trafford erupted. Rooney charged at Makélélé, while Ronaldo urgently signaled for medics.
Ferguson's lips thinned. "I'll sub him at half-time. We can't risk this turning into a disaster."
Queiroz glanced at Mike Phelan—Denis Irwin's close friend and Malcolm Glazer's trusted staff member.
Phelan could only sigh, resting his forehead on his palm in silent resignation.
On the pitch, Claire's mental state teetered on the edge.
For some reason, he couldn't focus today. Every time the crowd chanted his name, his eyes involuntarily darted toward Megan Fox's seat.
As fatigue set in, his concentration fractured further.
Multiple times during Chelsea's counters, his holographic vision failed to activate. Though he tried relying on his own skills, the harsh truth was clear—without the system, he was outmatched against Chelsea's elite.
"You okay?" Ronaldo crouched beside him, concerned.
Claire lay flat, staring blankly at the sky.
Ignoring Rooney and Makélélé's scuffle nearby, Ronaldo made way for the medics.
"Open your mouth."
"Lift your leg."
"Roll over."
"Any discomfort?"
"Maybe I should sub out… What do you think, Cris?" Claire murmured, eyes vacant.
Ronaldo immediately recognized the crisis—a player voluntarily asking to come off, unless injured, was career suicide.
"Get up!" Ronaldo hauled him to his feet. "You play at least 70 minutes today! Quit now, and you'll rot on the bench forever! What the hell's gotten into you?"
Claire's gaze flickered toward Megan again.
Ferguson, now standing at the touchline, watched intently. Ronaldo signaled: [He's fine. Let him play.]
"Claire, come on! Whatever this is, we'll fix it later!" Ronaldo gripped his shoulders. "This is your career! Your life!"
As Claire stood, the stadium speakers blared The Night's chorus:
"He said, one day you'll leave this world behind..."
Claire suddenly grabbed Ronaldo's head, forcing them both into exaggerated bows toward the stands.
"F**k's sake! You can't live without her? I've got a future too!" Claire roared, then booted the ball skyward.
The cameras, ever mischievous, zoomed in as Claire's armband slipped during the bow—revealing a tattoo:
[Megan]
Old Trafford's screens split between Claire's bowed figure and Megan Fox's stunned face in the stands.
Then, Megan did the unthinkable—she turned, yanked down her loose top, and exposed her back to the cameras:
[Li Yi Feng]
[Megan]
"They knew each other!" Jason Statham gaped at Sylvester Stallone. "No wonder he never reacted when I trash-talked her!"
"Tomorrow's headlines are set. Warner Music wins again," Stallone chuckled.
Shia LaBeouf finally understood Megan's complex reaction when he'd mentioned Claire being "from the same place." "No UK box office record is stopping Transformers now," he muttered.
On the pitch, Claire grinned at his tattoo, waving at Megan.
"Oho! You two have history?" Park Ji-sung waggled his eyebrows.
Order resumed after the referee's whistle, but the media frenzy had already begun.
Chelsea's free kick, awarded for Claire's yellow card, became Lampard's moment—a soaring cross, Carvalho's sneaky jersey-pull on Ronaldo, and a Chelsea goal.
1-0.
Terry smirked as he passed Claire. "Tricks won't save you. Football's about skill."
Claire ignored him, signaling to Giggs at kickoff.
Instead of the usual long ball, Giggs played it short. After a few passes, the ball reached Claire.
Chelsea's defense, still high from their goal, was caught off guard.
Claire's holographic vision activated—options flashing:
A: Dribble through midfield (60% success)
B: Long pass (100% accuracy)
He chose B.
"!" Claire shouted in .
Only Ronaldo, Park, and Rooney reacted—having learned this code during training. They sprinted forward as Claire evaded Joe Cole with a slick turn.
His cross found Ronaldo, who unselfishly squared it for Rooney's delicate chip over Čech.
1-1.
MUTV's commentator lost his mind. "A lightning counter! Claire 's vision just humiliated Chelsea!"
The stadium erupted—not just for the goal, but for Claire's flawless call-back revenge.
As halftime blew, Ferguson stared at Megan Fox, bemused.
"Since when does a woman's influence win football matches?"