The Next Big Thing

"Ooo, and there it was…" The first commentator's voice cracked with disbelief through the muted broadcast feed."That should have been a goal—Manchester United missed their chance to tie it up in the dying moments."

The second voice was equally stunned."Absolutely. It's a brutal blow. Losing your opener at Old Trafford—especially at home—is a tough pill to swallow."

On the screen, the final whistle blew. The scoreboard flashed: Crystal Palace 3, Manchester United 2.

"Look at Ronaldo…" The first commentator's tone softened, edged with empathy. "Frustration written all over his face. You can see him kicking the pitch, slamming his cleats down in anger. The captain wanted this so badly."

"He's been a warrior out there all game," the second agreed. "But this defense… it cost them. Sloppy mistakes, missed marking—too many gaps. It's been a rough first match for the new Ten Hag era."

"New manager, new system, new challenges," said the first. "And losing your home opener at Old Trafford, well, that's a harsh start. Ten Hag has some serious work ahead."

"Ronaldo did score twice — moments of brilliance— but football's a team game. You win as a team, you lose as a team."

"And credit to Crystal Palace—clinical, composed, they grabbed their chances and never looked back."

The broadcast feed cut to slow-motion highlights—Ronaldo's determined runs, his clinical finishes, but also defensive lapses and the goal that sealed the match for Palace.

In the stark, quiet locker room, David Jones sat frozen in place, his eyes glued to the screen.

"We lost," he muttered under his breath, voice barely audible, almost drowned out by the sterile hum of the medical equipment buzzing beside him.

The medical team hovered nearby, hands steady and practiced, carefully tending to his leg—wrapping ice, checking swelling, probing for pain—but David barely noticed. He hadn't left since being subbed off; no matter their insistence, he refused to move away from the flickering TV on the wall.

He couldn't stand in the stands. No roaring crowd to lift the players, no voices to shout for the team. But here, in this cold, antiseptic room, watching the last moments, he felt the weight of every second.

The memory of the 80th-minute goal stabbed deep, like a physical blow. Crystal Palace's third goal—slamming home that winner—had shattered more than just the scoreboard.

The pain in his leg was only a fraction of the ache inside his chest.

Yet, in that quiet moment, beneath the dull hum of fluorescent lights, a fragile ember flickered in his mind.

They could still come back.There's still hope. he had said

Even if the final score said otherwise. then he realised

Hope kills

The scoreboard was unforgiving. Manchester United had lost. Badly.

David Jones sat alone in the sterile silence of the locker room, the sterile hum of medical equipment a dull backdrop to the storm inside him. The pain radiating from his leg was sharp but insignificant compared to the crushing weight of defeat. Yes, this was only the first of thirty-eight games in a long, grueling season—but this loss was more than just a number on a scoreboard. It was a searing ache deep within his chest, a burden he carried as if the entire weight of the defeat rested on his shoulders.

His breath hitched. For a fleeting second, a single tear welled up, threatening to escape and betray the stoic façade he tried desperately to maintain. But before it could fall, the locker room door slammed open with a thunderous bang, shattering the fragile silence.

And then he saw him—Cristiano Ronaldo—storming in, fiery-eyed, every muscle taut with fury.

Ronaldo didn't just enter; he exploded into the room, tossing water bottles and towels carelessly aside as he shouted in Portuguese, the words sharp and raw:

"Que merda é essa? Como é que perdemos esse jogo?!"("What the hell is this? How did we lose this game?!")

His voice echoed off the cold walls, filled with disbelief and rage.

"Vocês não estão jogando como uma equipe! Isso é inaceitável!"("You're not playing like a team! This is unacceptable!")

His outburst wasn't alone; it was a spark that ignited the entire locker room. The rest of the squad followed, their faces etched with exhaustion, frustration, and disappointment. The oppressive mood thickened the air like a storm ready to break.

David stayed rooted in his seat, eyes wide and wary, silently observing the chaos unravel around him. The tear in his eye vanished, replaced by a cold, hollow numbness as he watched the layers of his teammates' reactions.

Pogba stood near his locker, angrily tossing his training gear into his bag, each movement sharp and aggressive. His jaw clenched, lips pressed into a hard line.

Bruno Fernandes sat a few feet away, his face shadowed by a deep frown, silent as a statue, his eyes fixed on the floor as if willing the loss to undo itself.

Rashford entered with a quieter energy, his steps hesitant as he slipped into the room. Without a word, he reached into his locker, pulled out his phone, and stared at the screen as if it might provide answers that the match never did.

Meanwhile, Ronaldo—his fury momentarily spent—had settled near his locker, still visibly simmering beneath the surface. David noticed him murmuring to himself, hands slicing through the air in frustrated gestures, each word heavy with disappointment and disbelief. No one was paying him any mind; the locker room had sunk into a deafening silence.

David's gaze flickered around the room, taking it all in—the shattered pride, the raw frustration, the exhaustion etched into every face.

Then, suddenly, louder than Ronaldo's own storm of anger, the entire locker room erupted in shouts—sharp, piercing, impossible to ignore.

Voices clashed like thunder: curses, accusations, bitter frustration boiling over.

David felt a tightness in his chest, his breath catching as the tension crescendoed. The locker room was no longer just a place for recovery—it had become a battlefield of raw emotions, and David sat in the eye of the storm, his own pain mingling with the voices around him.

Before the door even creaked open, the sharp, angry voice pierced through the thick air of the locker room. The tone was unmistakable—tense, raw, and laced with frustration. The words cut through the murmurs and restless shuffling:

"Shit! Shit! All fucking shit! How could this happen? This is unacceptable..."

David's heart sank the instant he heard it. That voice. Only one person carried that kind of cold fury mixed with controlled rage. The voice belonged to Eric ten Hag, the coach, whose reputation for being exacting and fierce preceded him.

The heavy locker room door swung open with a commanding thud, and there he was—Ten Hag—entering like a storm itself. His presence immediately sucked the energy out of the room. The murmurs and shuffles fell silent like the calm before a hurricane.

David's breath caught as his eyes locked with the coach's icy gaze, and a chilling realization gripped him: Ten Hag's sharp eyes were fixed directly on him.

Without hesitation, Ten Hag raised a single finger, pointing sharply and deliberately at David.

"You." His voice was low, measured, yet carrying the weight of thunder as he took purposeful steps forward.

In that instant, David snapped upright, disregarding the sharp sting in his left foot wrapped tightly in a cast. The pain, once fierce, now dulled in the face of the mounting tension.

The entire locker room seemed to lean in, every pair of eyes drawn to this confrontation.

Ten Hag stopped just inches away from David, his expression hard as stone, his voice a chilling mixture of cold disdain and raw anger.

"How did this happen?" he demanded, his words sharp and cutting, slicing through the thick air like a knife.

David's heart pounded, his mouth dry, and his mind raced to find the right answer. His instincts screamed to explain, to defend himself—but before he could utter a single word, a figure stood up beside him, cutting in.

The team's medical staff member—a man with a clinical, professional demeanor and steady eyes—stepped forward.

"David sustained a moderate sprain to his left ankle," the doctor explained calmly, his tone precise and informative, as if reading from a well-rehearsed report. "It's severe enough to require immobilization, so we've applied a rigid cast to stabilize the joint. The injury likely occurred during a sudden twist or impact when he landed awkwardly. Given the swelling and instability, he'll be out for several weeks, possibly longer depending on recovery and rehab."

The doctor's voice was steady, confident—the kind of measured, scientific delivery you'd expect from someone who'd treated dozens of athletes in high-stakes situations.

Ten Hag didn't flinch but turned his cold gaze away from David momentarily.

"I wasn't talking to you, Doctor. And thank you for your work." His voice was clipped, dismissive but polite enough.

The doctor nodded, his role done for now, and grabbed his medical bag. He exchanged brief nods with his team before turning toward the exit.

Before he left, he paused by David, offering one last professional note.

"We've wrapped your ankle for now. That should hold for the moment, but you'll need to come back for a thorough examination and ongoing treatment very soon." His voice softened slightly with a hint of reassurance.

David managed a tight nod, muttering a quiet "Thank you" as the man left, the sound of the door clicking shut behind him slicing the silence again.

Now, it was just David and Ten Hag.

The coach's eyes bore into him once more, sharper than ever.

"How and when did this happen?" Ten Hag's voice was barely above a growl, his demand hanging heavy in the air.

David swallowed hard. The question was simple—but loaded. It wasn't just about the injury. It was about the consequences, the disappointment, the impact on the team's future.

David's mind raced back through every painful moment: the twisted ankle, the pain, the frustration on the pitch, the knowledge that this injury wasn't just physical—it was a blow to everything he had been working for.

He felt the eyes of every teammate on him, waiting for an answer, for an explanation. The silence stretched painfully.

His voice came out low, but steady: