Ibrahimovic strode over, his hand raised for another chokehold.
He stopped, suddenly remembering, and reluctantly withdrew his hand.
Instead, he gave Ling a shove that nearly knocked him over.
"I was waiting for you to shoot!" he boomed. "If you'd missed, I was going to kill you. Didn't expect you to pass instead!"
"Uh... your position was better," Ling said, his lips twitching.
He had never imagined the great Ibrahimovic was such a mischievous, overgrown kid.
The Red team celebrated briefly.
With high morale, they defended tenaciously for the final few minutes, holding the 2-0 lead until the final whistle.
On the White team, players like Rashford shot subtle, annoyed glances at Pogba.
If he hadn't been so dominant on the ball and wasted so many chances, they might not have been humiliated.
After the match, the first-team players looked at the black-haired youngster differently.
It was unavoidable.
Ling's performance had been too standout.
Both goals had come directly from him.
"Your dribbling is impressive," a voice said.
Ling turned around.
Antonio Valencia was walking beside him, a towel around his neck.
"Thanks for the compliment," Ling said, a little surprised. He deeply respected Valencia's relentless work ethic.
Valencia, not the type to get angry over being beaten by a junior, just nodded.
"We need that. Keep working hard."
He then did something shocking: the corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly.
The other players who saw it stared.
Everyone knew Valencia had a perpetually sour face.
He hadn't cracked a real smile since his close friend Nani left the club.
...
When the post-match stretching ended, so did the selection trials.
Ling was about to leave when he saw Rui Faria waving at him.
He jogged over.
"Congratulations in advance," Faria said, his usually stern face broken by a wide grin.
He extended his hand, then gave Ling a firm pat on the shoulder. "Your performance far exceeded my expectations."
"Thank—"
Ling's words caught in his throat.
He froze, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs.
The hidden meaning. 'Congratulations in advance.'
Had he... Had he passed?
He'd been reborn, he'd lived through a decade of failure, but standing here, at this crucial turning point, he still couldn't remain calm.
Faria saw the look of pure, unadulterated shock on the kid's face.
"No need to thank me," Faria said, his smile softening. "You earned this yourself. The club will be in touch about a new contract tomorrow. Oh, and don't you dare slack off on that training plan."
Faria knew Ling needed a moment.
He gave him one last nod and turned to leave.
Ling stood alone on the pitch, taking deep breaths, trying to calm the storm in his chest.
It was real.
This is it, he thought.
The road ahead is still long. But it has begun.
...
Manchester United Cafeteria
"I can't believe it. All three of us are in the first team!" McTominay said, his mouth full of steak.
"We can use the first-team cafeteria 24 hours a day!"
"How shallow!" Rashford said, looking at him with pure disdain. "Is that really your only goal?"
"I heard Mr. Giuliano, the nutritionist, is testing everyone tomorrow," Ling said, a pitying expression on his face.
"He's creating personalized nutrition plans."
He leaned in, delivering the final blow.
"You might never get to eat sweet flower brewed chicken again."
"Huh?" McTominay froze, the fork halfway to his mouth.
He looked down, dumbfounded, as if the food on his plate had suddenly lost all flavor.
...
After dinner, Ling strolled back to his dorm.
He pulled out his phone, looked at the time, and hesitated for a long while before finally pressing the call button.
Beep... beep... beep...
....
Thousands of Miles Away, Bin City, China
"Chang, hurry up and answer it!" a woman's voice shouted from a kitchen, over the sound of a knife hitting a cutting board.
"At this hour, only our son would call us!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming," a man grumbled. "The phone isn't going to grow legs and run away."
"You're impossible! All you ever say is 'don't rush.' What if it's urgent?"
The chopping stopped.
THUD.
The knife slammed into the board.
"Alright, alright!" Ling Changzheng, fumbling with his pants, emerged from the bathroom, snatched up the phone, and put it on speaker.
"Mom?"
The energy in the room instantly changed.
"Yes, son!" Yan Lanxia rushed out of the kitchen, wiping her hands frantically on her apron.
"How's training? Is it tough? Are you tired? Do you need money? Your dad just got his quarterly bonus, I'll have him transfer it."
Since his rebirth, Ling had been too anxious to call.
He always felt unsure of how to face them. But hearing his mother's rapid-fire questions, his new maturity melted away.
He was just a kid again, his voice thick with emotion.
"Mom, it's not tough. I'm not tired. And I don't need money."
He took a deep breath.
"I called to tell you... I made it to the first team."
Silence fell on both ends of the line.
Yan Lanxia looked at her husband in disbelief.
"Husband... am I dreaming? What did he say?"
Changzheng was equally stunned.
He just stared at the phone. Then, his face a complicated mess of pride and shock, he slapped his own thigh.
Hard.
SMACK!
"It's real!" he yelped, wincing.
"Oh my... I... your dad..." Yan Lanxia was so excited she couldn't form a complete sentence, her eyes welling up.
'All of it,' she thought.
'The sacrifices. Sending a 13-year-old boy all alone to England.'
'The relatives gossiping... 'He has poor academics,' they'd said.'
'His future is ruined.' All the hardships...'
"Mom," Ling said, his voice cracking a smile. "You'll probably see me on TV soon. Don't forget to cheer for me."
"Of course! Of course! Your dad and I will watch every broadcast!"
Suddenly, she sniffed, her attention shifting.
"Ah! The congee is boiling over! Let your dad talk to you for a bit."
She shoved the phone into her husband's hands and rushed back to the kitchen.