"The match has ended!" Gary Neville shouted into his microphone, his voice still trembling with adrenaline.
"While completely neutralizing Liverpool's formidable Trident, Mourinho maximized Ling's solo breakthrough ability as the explosive point, suppressing Liverpool's strongest wing system. His tactical construction and in-game adaptability were truly astonishing today."
Neville paused, looking down at his notes.
He had specifically asked a ghostwriter to prepare this monologue, knowing his own vocabulary usually maxed out at "Unbelievable!"
"But what I really want to talk about is Ling. Without any doubt, he was the best performer in this match. He seized almost every opportunity after breaking through, scoring or assisting, helping Manchester United open up the game and then guiding them through the most difficult periods."
"Of course," Neville continued, his voice softening with genuine emotion, "other Manchester United players also delivered brilliant performances. In them, I saw the unwavering faith of never giving up, the Red Devil spirit of rising from the ashes in desperate situations. For so many years, it has been driving us forward without stopping!"
"I hope the Manchester United lads continue fighting with this spirit. I believe they will create their own legendary stories! Perhaps decades from now, looking back, they will thank their struggling selves today, just like we did back then."
Next to him, Jamie Carragher looked miserable.
Wearing the tight red Manchester United jersey, he pulled a crumpled note from his pocket and read quietly, devoid of his usual enthusiasm.
"Liverpool players, don't be discouraged. Hundreds of North West Derbies are woven with failures and successes. Losing the match doesn't mean losing everything. Liverpool will come back stronger next season."
He crumpled the note and threw it at Neville.
"Happy now, you Manc muppet?"
...
The camera cut to the executive suite.
Sir Alex Ferguson was chewing his gum furiously, his legs crossed and shaking—a habit that never died.
He looked pleased, the redness in his cheeks glowing.
"David," Ferguson asked the man beside him, "didn't you sign an endorsement contract with Ling before? How are the product sales going?"
David Beckham, looking effortlessly stylish in a beige coat, smiled wryly. "Victoria's design concept is... let's say 'too ahead of its time.' To be honest, Boss, I don't even want to wear those jeans outside, so..."
Ferguson chuckled.
The jeans cost hundreds of pounds, entering the luxury category but lacking the brand recognition of Gucci or Saint Laurent.
Even Beckham's face hadn't moved units.
Ling, whose commercial value was still raw, naturally couldn't save a bad product.
Chinese fans were smart.
They weren't foolish enough to buy overpriced denim.
They'd rather spend that money on authentic jerseys or football boots they could actually use. Or, frankly, buy a crate of Coca-Cola.
Endorsements needed to be accessible.
Ferguson walked to the glass window, looking down at the pitch where the players were shaking hands.
"Rashford, Lingard, James, Pereira, Tuanzebe, Williams... and Ling," the old Scot murmured. "They're gradually growing up, becoming important parts of Manchester United. It reminds me of your generation, David. The Class of '92."
Ferguson turned, his eyes twinkling. "Do you remember your first match after I promoted you to the first team?"
"Yes," Beckham nodded, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips. "We lost 1-3 to Aston Villa. You gave us the hairdryer treatment. You screamed so loud that Phil cried in the corner."
"Alan Hansen said 'You can't win anything with kids,'" Ferguson quoted, rubbing his nose awkwardly.
"I suppose we proved him wrong."
He patted Beckham on the shoulder. "Haha, let's not talk about the past anymore. How about having dinner together tonight? Let's invite Ling too. I want to meet the boy properly."
Beckham hesitated. "Still the same place we used to go to? The Italian spot?"
"Mm." Ferguson nodded, his gaze drifting back to the pitch.
...
On the pitch, the adrenaline was fading, replaced by the heavy ache of fatigue. The players went through the motions of the post-match handshake.
Mohamed Salah found Ling in the crowd. He stared at the United winger intently, feeling a sharp twinge of frustration.
Although Salah had scored a brilliant equalizer, his overall performance had been stifled.
Ashley Young had been his shadow, haunting him for ninety minutes.
And Ling? Ling had been a monster.
He had dominated the left flank, turning Trent Alexander-Arnold and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain into training cones.
Two goals and an assist and was clearly the man of the match.
But more importantly, the Golden Boot race had shifted.
Top Scorers:
Ling (Man Utd): 29 Goals
Salah (Liverpool): 28 Goals
Salah clenched his jaw but quickly regained his composure. Liverpool were effectively out of the title race now; his focus had to be singular.
After this match, only six rounds remained.
Liverpool had an easy run-in—no top six teams. It was the perfect opportunity to stat-pad against weaker teams.
United, on the other hand, still had to face Arsenal and Manchester City. And knowing Mourinho, he might rest Ling for the Champions League.
'It's not over,' Salah thought, walking past Ling without a word. 'I will catch up to you.'
...
Jurgen Klopp shook hands with Mourinho—a brief, firm grip—before heading straight to his players.
He didn't offer soft words. He gave Van Dijk a slap on the back, grabbed Arnold by the neck in a playful headlock, and kept moving.
Liverpool players didn't need pity.
They were mentality monsters.
They would bottle this anger and unleash it next week.
Mourinho, on the other hand, stayed behind. He embraced every United player as they walked off, whispering into their ears.
"Romelu, you held the ball up like a warrior. Perfect execution."
"Antonio, my captain. You led by example."
"Paul, that was a discipline and creativity looks like. That is the player I bought."
Then, Ling approached.
"Boss, no need to say it," Ling grinned cheekily, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I already know. My performance today was flawless! Ten out of ten!"
Mourinho stopped, his expression hardening. "You rascal! That is not what I was going to say."
He pulled Ling closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "There is still plenty for you to improve. For instance, your positioning was too deep during the middle phase. I understand you wanted to help Young defend, but you crowded Matic's space. It ended up being counterproductive."
"And in the 67th minute," Mourinho continued, tapping his temple, "if you'd had a wider field of vision after your breakthrough, you would've spotted Mata on the opposite flank. A long pass then would've killed them earlier."
"Also..." Mourinho paused, trying to find another fault but struggling.
"You still have a lot to learn," he finished gruffly. "Don't let the outside praise blind you. Review the match tape when you get back tonight. Come see me tomorrow with your analysis!"
Mourinho deliberately put on a stern face, then broke into a smile and gave Ling a playful punch to the chest.
"But... good job, kid. Good job."
"Alright, boss," Ling laughed, feigning pain. "I'll study the tape."
...
Back in the dressing room, the atmosphere was a party. The smell of victory—sweat, grass, and champagne—filled the air.
Ashley Young pulled a massive Bluetooth speaker from his locker. Being the dressing room DJ was a heavy responsibility.
He had to balance the tastes of the squad.
Paul Pogba and Jesse Lingard wanted trap and grime. Antonio Valencia wanted reggaeton. David De Gea... well, David loved metal.
When Patrice Evra left in 2014, De Gea was supposed to take over the AUX cord.
He played one song—a screaming death metal track—and was immediately banned by the rest of the squad.
Ashley Young had held the reins ever since.
Young scrolled through his playlist and hit play.
A cheerful, infectious melody filled the room.
"Something beautiful! (Believing beauty will last forever)" Let Me Love You - DJ Snake ft. Justin Bieber.
It was a safe choice, a crowd-pleaser.
Everyone put down their towels and water bottles.
Then, the swaying started.
"Don't you give up, nah-nah-nah!" Pogba sang, his voice cracking.
He grabbed Lingard, and the two launched into a synchronized dance routine, their moves flamboyant and clearly practiced in Manchester nightclubs.
Even the stoic Nemanja Matic was tapping his foot.
Ling sat in his corner, unlacing his boots with a wide smile on his face.
He watched his teammates celebrating and the fatigue in his legs felt good.
"Hey, Ling!" Pogba shouted, pulling him up. "Come on! Show us the Cow Tail!"
Ling laughed, letting himself be dragged into the center of the room.