In England.
"Ooohhhh—ahhhhh."
"HMMMMMMM."
The sounds burst out instantly, colliding with each other, filling the rented-out restaurant like an explosion. Plates rattled softly on the table. Ice clinked in half-finished glasses. The place was sealed off—no cameras, no staff, no noise from the outside world the previous podcast crew long gone. Lights dimmed. Curtains drawn. Just three men, the glow of the television, and football tearing through the room. (Money is good boys )
Rio Ferdinand was always the dramatic one. He shot up from his chair, knocking it back slightly, arms flying everywhere, face scrunched in disbelief as he paced a few steps, spinning around.
"Oh nah—nah nah nah nah," he barked, voice cracking, hands slicing the air. "Nah, that's illegal. That's illegal!"
On the table above them sat untouched food—steaks cooling, fries abandoned, condensation sliding down tall glasses of water and something stronger. No one cared. Not now.
Michael Carrick—normally the calmest of the three—was frozen. One leg had come up onto the chair. Both hands were locked on top of his head, elbows wide. His mouth hung open for a second before he burst out laughing.
"That was nasty," he said, shaking his head. "Absolutely nasty. First Alphonso Davies… now Kyle Walker. Seems the kid hates it when players try to mark him."
He laughed again, louder this time, almost helpless. "Hates it."
Rio finally dropped back into his seat, still buzzing, still fuming, still half-standing as he pointed at the screen.
"Would never let that happen to me," he shouted, slapping the table once for emphasis.
"Never."
He sat fully this time, leaned forward, then yelled again just to be sure.
"Ever!"
Carrick laughed harder at that, shaking his head, eyes still glued to the screen.
A brief pause followed. The noise settled into heavy breathing and low chuckles.
Carrick exhaled slowly. "But… that kid is insane."
Rio reached for his glass, drained the water in one long pull, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then nodded, his tone changing—less noise now, more awe.
"One-in-a-generation talent," he said quietly. "Simply… wow."
He placed the glass down carefully, eyes never leaving the TV, then added, half-dreaming, half-regretful,
"If we had someone like him alongside Ronnie, Wayne, and the rest of them boys… I reckon those Champions League nights could've been very different."
Carrick nodded slowly. "Honestly. And it's so vexing—why is it always Barcelona? Is there really something different about their academy?"
As Carrick mused, Rio turned slightly to the side.
A grown man sat there in silence.
He hadn't jumped up. He hadn't shouted. He hadn't laughed. He simply stared at the screen, eyes locked in, unblinking. The goal had hit him too—maybe harder than the others—but it showed differently. His jaw was tight. His gaze intense. A habit he'd picked up when something really got into his head. A habit his wife hated. One of the reasons football had been quietly banned from their home. One of the reasons he now came out whenever he wanted to watch a match.
On the screen, the kid was still running—charging toward the corner area in a near-mad state—and the man didn't move at all.
Rio was still riding the moment, still smiling, completely oblivious to the older man's trance. He leaned slightly toward him, tone light, almost playful.
"So what do you think, boss?"
No response.
Rio didn't notice at first. He waited a beat, eyes still half on the screen, half on the man beside him.
"…Boss?"
Nothing.
He finally turned properly, eyebrows lifting. Sir Alex hadn't moved an inch. Still staring straight ahead, eyes narrowed, jaw set, locked onto the television like the world around him had faded out.
Rio chuckled softly, already familiar with this look.
"Boss, boss," he called again, a little louder now. "Boss."
Two… three times.
That did it.
Sir Alex Ferguson snapped out of it suddenly, almost sharply. His shoulders jolted, head turning fast toward Rio, irritation flashing across his face.
"What?" he barked.
The tone was rough, clipped—but Rio barely reacted. He just smiled, long used to that edge, long used to that voice.
"I said," Rio repeated calmly, leaning back in his chair, "if we had that kid during those nights—those Champions League nights—playing for United, we might very well be carrying a badge on our jerseys during Ucl nights now." In the UCL only Clubs with 5 wins or 3 consecutive wins get a multiple-winner badge they were only few Clubs with this badge which include Real Madrid Milan, Bayern Munich, Liverpool, Ajax and Barcelona. Of course there was still the Titleholder Badge privilege but that was an entirely different thing
He said it casually, almost forgetting the absurdity of it. Forgetting he was talking about a 17-year-old who had not even played a full season, helping a team win one of multiple UCL trophies. But after watching match after match, after seeing what the kid did to fullbacks, midfields, entire defensive lines—age stopped mattering. Football always had a way of bending logic. Of feeding recency bias. Of making the impossible feel reasonable.
Sir Alex turned fully now, fixing Rio with a serious look.
For the first time, Rio faltered slightly.
He opened his mouth to add something—but Sir Alex spoke first.
"Hm," he said slowly. "He would be great at United, wouldn't he?"
That stopped Rio cold.
"Ooh—no, no," Rio replied quickly, waving a hand. "Not now. I was talking about the past—"
His voice trailed off.
Because Sir Alex had already lost interest again.
The older man's eyes had drifted back to the screen, focus sharpening, attention narrowing like a lens closing in. Rio stared at him for a second, then shook his head with a small laugh, turning back toward Michael Carrick, silently regretting ever trying to pull the old man into conversation during a match.
Meanwhile—
Sir Alex remained still.
On the screen, the broadcast had cut to a tight, full-face shot of Mateo. Buzz cut. Sharp jawline. Face contracted, almost angry. Mouth wide open as he shouted something toward the camera, chest rising and falling, sweat glistening under the floodlights.
Sir Alex didn't blink.
He stared, eyes strangely bright, mind clearly somewhere else entirely.
Under his breath—so low no one else heard—it slipped out.
"Manchester United, ehn."
A small, knowing grin crept onto his lips.
A/N
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