When Ferguson arrived in the locker room at halftime, he didn't lecture his players on tactics. Instead, the manager cracked jokes to lighten the mood.
"Lads! Congratulations—your efforts in the first half earned you those roars from the crowd!"
"You played brilliantly. If we can pull this off and beat Chelsea today, I guarantee your agents will be working overtime by the final whistle."
"Though I hope you'll invest some of that money back into yourselves—like Cristiano here. That's how you carve out a lasting place in the Premier League."
At Ferguson's words, the entire team instinctively glanced at Claire, who was silently sprawled on the couch.
Just moments earlier, MUTV's stadium DJ had announced some exciting news:
[As of now, the global viewership for Manchester United vs. Chelsea has surpassed 4 million.]
Some might scoff—only 4 million?
But this was just for a single Premier League match, counting only those watching live at home. It didn't even account for families of five huddled around one TV.
Thanks to the combined influence of Warner Music and Manchester United's marketing push, this game had already shattered the viewership record set by Arsenal's draw against United in the 2002-03 season (3.43 million viewers). That season, United's sponsorship revenue had topped the Premier League.
Ferguson understood the stakes. Before leaving, he quietly asked Ronaldo, "How's Claire? Hydrated?"
"Yeah, two bottles of saline. The medics checked him—no major issues for now."
After scanning the locker room one last time, Ferguson exchanged a few words with assistant Carlos Queiroz and stepped out. He had bigger fish to fry—a 30-second interview with MUTV.
As a shrewd manager, he knew this winter transfer window could be lucrative for United. In his eyes, the club was practically swimming in cash this season.
Adjusting his suit in the hallway mirror, Ferguson was intercepted by Mike Phelan, who rushed over, slightly breathless. "Boss, MUTV just finished interviewing Mourinho. They're waiting for you now. Should we—"
"Let them wait." Ferguson waved him off, fussing with his collar.
Phelan knew exactly what this was—Ferguson was stalling to avoid crossing paths with Mourinho. But he didn't dare push it. Despite his private arrangements with certain parties, Phelan had learned long ago not to cross Ferguson.
Back in the late '80s, when Phelan was a United player and Ferguson was a fiery young manager, one wrong look could bench you for weeks. Those memories kept Phelan in line even now.
After checking his watch, Ferguson finally muttered, "Let's go." Phelan scurried after him—only to find Mourinho waiting at the interview area.
"Bloody hell," Ferguson muttered under his breath before plastering on a smile for reporter Lucy Pinder.
But Mourinho, as if hell-bent on provoking him, stepped directly into his path, locking eyes with Ferguson.
Cameras and reporters swarmed, sensing drama. Lucy, ever the professional, smoothly intervened: "Sir Alex, your thoughts on United's first-half performance?"
"The best judge is your opponent. Why not ask Mourinho if my lads gave him trouble?"
The dig ignited the room. Camera shutters exploded as Ferguson smirked.
Mourinho fired back: "They were excellent. Let's see if they keep that energy in the second half. Maybe then we'll cry our way out of Old Trafford."
Ferguson didn't rise to the bait. United's strategy this season had no single focal point—every player contributed goals. It worked because the squad was young, fast, and relentless. But if their stamina faltered, the defense would crumble.
Mourinho had clearly spotted the weakness. Respectable, Ferguson thought—though he'd never admit it. Instead, he retorted: "I'd love it if your players tackled as politely as you talk."
With that, Ferguson walked off, leaving Mourinho seething.
Phelan shot a glance at his boss. Mourinho's still green. He never experienced the '90s Premier League—where Ferguson's mind games broke men.
Halftime couldn't exceed 15 minutes without referee approval. Barely seven minutes later, Claire was back in the tunnel, ready for the second half.
As he passed through, Megan Fox suddenly shouted: "F**k! Why didn't you tell me it was you?!"
Claire hesitated, then turned with a resigned shrug. "Back then…" He trailed off, palms upturned.
Behind him, Park Ji-sung and Ronaldo stifled grins.
"Hello, beautiful!" Ronaldo called. "I'll rent out the theater for your next movie!"
Megan ignored him, eyes locked on Claire. The two stared in tense silence—until Jessica Jung unexpectedly leaned in.
"You should go. The teams are switching sides."
When Claire blinked at her in confusion, Jessica smiled brightly. "I'm Jessica Jung—Park oppa's friend. You can call me Jessica."
"Got it."
As Claire sprinted onto the pitch without so much as a nod to Megan, the actress finally turned, studying the petite girl in heels.
"I was trying to help," Jessica said quietly. "You're engaged. A quick hello in public? The media can spin it as childhood friends—good for you, your film, your fiancé."
She subtly touched her right cheek, a silent reminder. Megan's expression shifted. Spotting a phone camera pointed their way, she forced a smile. "Thanks."
The second half kicked off with Chelsea raging—as if that disallowed first-half goal had lit a fire under them. Waves of attacks crashed toward United's defense.
Most of the celebrities around Megan were engrossed, but her mind was elsewhere. She mimed excitement when others cheered, her acting skills on full display.
Ever since learning Claire was that boy from her childhood, Megan had been reeling.
Back then, Claire wasn't the athlete he was now. Their families had been close—his grandfather, a social butterfly, had bonded with everyone in their small town. The kids naturally grew up together.
Young Megan, returning from Catholic school, would often find Claire trailing her like a puppy—calling her "noona" or even "wife," playing at "marriage."
Then life shattered.
After a terrorist attack wiped out Claire's family, a grieving Megan had sneaked out with him to get matching tattoos—their names etched in ink.
"Will you really marry me when we grow up?"
She'd nodded shyly, accepting the lily he plucked from a gravesite.
But then her parents divorced. And one night, Claire vanished.
People said a woman never forgets her first love—or the pain of losing it. Even with Brian Austin Green in her life, the name Li Yifeng haunted Megan.
As her relationship strained, she'd lie awake, remembering the boy grinning in the rain, holding out a flower.
Now, watching Claire on the pitch, Megan drifted into memories—until chaos erupted.
A misplaced pass from Giggs sparked a Chelsea counterattack. Their back line collapsed as Lampard, Joe Cole, and Michael Ballack surged forward in a deadly triangle—straight at Claire.
Ferdinand scrambled to cover, but the trio tore through United's defense. Ballack, all 189 cm of him, bulldozed into Claire, shielding the ball while "accidentally" hooking Claire's ankle.
Claire's augmented vision flashed a warning—**[Option B: Mid-air twist to disperse impact. Avoid wrist fracture.]**
He kicked against nothing, twisting his torso to flip mid-fall. Momentum and turf sent him crashing back-first onto the grass.
"F**k! The stitches—!" Claire gasped, trying to sit up before collapsing again.
Lampard, already in the box, glanced at the ref—no whistle. One strike later, the ball buried itself in United's net.
Rooney sprinted to protest, but the referee waved play on. Ferguson exploded on the sidelines, while Mourinho sat smugly silent.
When medics lifted Claire's jersey, the wound had split open. Blood seeped into the red fabric, barely visible.
"I'm finishing this game," Claire gritted out. "Just patch me up."
"You sure?"
"Do it."
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