Thursday, September 17. Carrington Medical Wing.
The cold, sterile light of the Carrington medical wing was a harsh contrast to the intoxicating glow of European nights.
Kwame Aboagye sat on the edge of the examination table, his training shirt pulled off.
Dr. Evans, the Head of Sports Science, adjusted his glasses as he gently pressed two fingers against the massive, mottled purple-and-black bruise that spanned the entire left side of Kwame's ribcage and shoulder.
Kwame winced slightly, a sharp hiss escaping his teeth.
"Morten Hjulmand is not a small man," Dr. Evans noted dryly, jotting down data on his clinical tablet. "The sheer kinetic force of that impact... honestly, in a standard seventeen-year-old, we'd be looking at cracked ribs or at least a hairline fracture of the clavicle."
Dr. Evans pulled up the morning's structural scans on the monitor behind him.
"But you aren't standard," the doctor murmured, shaking his head in that familiar, bewildered awe he always had when examining the teenager. "Your bone density and muscular armor absorbed the brunt of it. Structurally, everything is perfectly sound. It's just deep tissue trauma."
The heavy double doors of the medical wing hissed open.
Elias Thorne walked in. The Dutch manager was holding a cup of black coffee, his expression as unreadable and icy as ever. He walked over to the examination table and stared at the massive bruise.
"It looks worse than it is, Boss," Kwame said instinctively, already bracing for an argument. "It's just a bruise. I can train today. I'm ready for Palace."
Thorne didn't look at Kwame. He looked at Dr. Evans. "Assessment?"
"He's cleared for contact," Dr. Evans said professionally. "It'll be painful for a few days, but there's no risk of structural aggravation. Whatever freakish genetics he possesses—is doing its job."
Thorne nodded slowly. He took a sip of his coffee.
"Good," Thorne said. "You're sitting on Saturday."
Kwame blinked. He sat up straighter. "Boss, I just said I'm fine to—"
Thorne raised a single hand, silencing the teenager instantly.
"You are just a few games into a season that will require you to play fifty," Thorne said, his voice dropping into a low, clinical register. "We just entered the Champions League cycle. We play every three days. If I start you against Crystal Palace with deep tissue trauma, your body will overcompensate. You will alter your running gait to avoid the pain, and you will tear a hamstring."
Thorne lowered his hand.
"A few months ago, you were fighting for a spot on the bench. Today, you are too valuable to waste on pain management.
We protect our assets. You do not train today. You do not dress for Saturday. You sit, you recover, and you watch Kobbie Mainoo dissect Crystal Palace."
Kwame looked at his manager.
The old Kwame—the desperate, invisible academy kid terrified of losing his spot—would have argued. He would have begged to play, terrified that a single game off would send him back to the shadows.
But as he sat on the table, feeling the dull ache in his ribs, he realized something profound. He didn't have to fight for his existence anymore. Thorne wasn't dropping him; Thorne was protecting him. The trust was absolute.
Kwame let out a slow breath, the tension leaving his shoulders.
"Understood, Boss," Kwame nodded, a calm, mature acceptance in his voice. "I'll be ready for the next one."
Thorne offered a microscopic, deeply approving smirk. "I know you will be. Enjoy the weekend, Aboagye. You've earned it."
Friday. 1:00 PM. Salford Quays Penthouse.
The mandated day off was supposed to be relaxing, but Kwame was currently fighting for his life.
He was sitting cross-legged on the floor of his massive living room, intensely gripping a PS5 controller, his eyes glued to the 85-inch flat-screen TV.
"No, no, no, don't you dare—!" Kwame yelled, mashing the slide-tackle button.
On the screen, a digital version of Alejandro Garnacho executed a flawless step-over, bypassed Kwame's digital defender, and smashed the ball into the top corner.
"VAMOS!" Leo Castledine's voice shrieked through the PlayStation party chat headset. "You can't stop the Garnacho-Leo connection, Icebox! I am the FIFA King of Manchester!"
Kwame groaned, dropping the controller onto the plush rug. "This game is completely unrealistic. There's no way you track back that fast in real life, Leo."
"Don't be bitter just because you're down 3-0," Leo cackled. "By the way, did you see the squad update this morning?"
"No, I literally just booted it up," Kwame said, navigating back to the main menu.
"Go to the United squad. Right now. Look at the reserves."
Kwame navigated to the Team Management screen. He scrolled down past Bruno, Rashford, and Licha. He kept scrolling.
There, sitting in the central midfield depth chart, was a new player card.
K. ABOAGYEOVR: 81POTENTIAL: 92
Kwame's eyes widened. A massive, ridiculous grin broke across his face.
It was real. He was officially in EA Sports FC. EA had clearly fast-tracked his data from the media day in Los Angeles. The digital model was scarily accurate—the sharp taper fade, the intense, deadpan stare of the 'Icebox', the number 42, and the stats were all perfectly represented.
"Bro, they gave me an 81 overall!" Kwame laughed, genuinely hyped. "And 88 Physicality!"
"Yeah, yeah, enjoy it while it lasts," Leo said smugly. "But scroll up. Look at the right wing."
Kwame scrolled up to Leo's card.
He burst out laughing.
The tragic, blocky, receding-hairline placeholder that had haunted Leo since the start of the season was gone. EA had finally patched in the official face scans from the media day in Los Angeles. Digital Leo now had his pristine, immaculate haircut and his signature cheeky smirk.
"They finally fixed your hairline!" Kwame wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "I was starting to miss the 40-year-old divorced Castledine model."
"The disrespect is officially over," Leo announced proudly. "Anyway, I've got to go to Carrington for the activation session. You enjoy your rest day, old man. Try not to pull a muscle on the sofa."
"Get out of here," Kwame smiled, signing off the party chat.
He tossed the headset onto the table and leaned back against the sofa. The apartment was filled with a warm, comforting domestic hum.
Over at the massive marble kitchen island, Afia and Chloe were buried behind a fortress of textbooks, highlighters, and two open laptops. They were deep in the trenches of their final Master's thesis reviews.
"If I have to read the phrase 'hemodynamic instability' one more time, I am going to throw this laptop into the Quays," Chloe groaned, rubbing her temples and taking a massive gulp of iced coffee.
"Focus, Chloe," Afia said without looking up from her screen, her fingers flying across the keyboard. "We are two weeks away from submission. Once we hand this in, we are officially free. We can sleep for a month."
Kwame stood up and walked over to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of sparkling water. "How are the girls doing?" he asked, leaning against the counter.
Afia paused her typing, a soft, maternal smile touching her lips.
"They are doing perfectly," Afia said. "Mia sent me a picture of her new studio space at the art college this morning. She is already complaining about her professors, which means she is completely in her element."
"And Maya?" Kwame asked, trying to sound entirely casual as he unscrewed his water bottle.
Chloe peeked over her laptop screen, a wicked, knowing smirk instantly appearing on her face. "Oh, Maya is doing great. She has started her classes already.
Apparently, her Business Management lectures are incredibly boring, but she did mention that a certain someone promised to take her out to celebrate her first week."
Kwame nearly choked on his water. He coughed, his ears instantly burning hot. "I didn't say 'take her out'. I said I'd show her around the city center so she doesn't get lost."
"Right. A geographical tour," Afia noted dryly, arching a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Very romantic."
"It's not a date!" Kwame groaned, hiding his face behind the refrigerator door.
"Whatever you say, Icebox," Chloe laughed, turning back to her thesis. "Just make sure you don't wear the bucket hat and the fake glasses again. She actually wants to be seen in public with you."
Kwame shut the fridge, shaking his head. He loved them, but living with his agent/sister and her best friend meant his personal life was subjected to the same ruthless tactical analysis as his football matches.
Saturday. 10:00 AM. Manchester City Centre.
The rain had cleared, leaving a crisp, bright Saturday morning in Manchester.
Kwame wasn't in the squad today, but the corporate machine never slept. Since he had a free morning, Afia had scheduled a low-key Reebok pop-up activation in the city center.
It was supposed to be a simple thirty-minute appearance—sign some boots, take some photos in the new 'Icebox' capsule gear, and leave.
But when the black SUV pulled up to the store, the street was entirely blocked off.
Hundreds of fans were pressed against the barricades. The moment Kwame stepped out of the car, wearing a sharp, tailored Reebok tracksuit, the screams erupted.
"GENERAL! OVER HERE!""SIGN MY SHIRT, KWAME!"
Kwame kept his cool, offering his signature deadpan, professional nods and signing as many items as he could before security ushered him inside the glass doors.
Inside, while the photographers set up the lighting, Kwame checked his phone while sitting in the green room.
The timeline was an absolute chaotic mess of arrogance and expectation.
Manchester United were sitting on four wins out of four in the Premier League. They had just beaten Newcastle, Brighton, Chelsea, and Everton. They had conquered Sporting CP in the Champions League. The vibes hadn't been this immaculate at Old Trafford in a decade.
And today, they were playing Crystal Palace at home.
Palace were currently sitting in 15th place, struggling for form and leaking goals.
The pundits were predicting a bloodbath.
Sky Sports Preview:"Even with Elias Thorne resting Kwame Aboagye and rotating the squad, this should be a walk in the park for Manchester United. Crystal Palace simply do not have the firepower to trouble this defense. I'm predicting a comfortable 3-0 win for the Red Devils." - Gary Neville.
But it was a specific post on TikTok that made Kwame's stomach drop.
@UnitedStrandGuy had just gone live outside the East Stand of Old Trafford.
The famous, wildly superstious fan was standing in a sea of singing supporters. He wasn't holding a flare or a scarf.
He was holding a pair of heavy-duty, cordless hair clippers.
"LADS! LADS! LISTEN TO ME!" the Strand Guy screamed into his phone camera, his wild, untamed shoulder-length hair blowing in the wind. "Day 1,131! We are currently on FOUR WINS IN A ROW! Four out of five! Today is the day! Crystal Palace at home! I have carried this mop on my head through the darkest days of this football club, but the curse ends today! I am cutting it off live at full-time! WE ARE MASSIVE!"
Kwame stared at the video.
The comments section underneath the livestream was a terrified, panicked warzone.
@UTD_Zone:DELETE THIS IMMEDIATELY! YOU ARE JINXING US! PUT THE CLIPPERS AWAY UNTIL THE FINAL WHISTLE! 😭✂️❌
@General_AllDay:Bro is tempting the wrath of the football gods. Palace always play prime Barcelona when they come to Old Trafford. Why would you post this?!
@CPFC_Eagles:Thanks for the team talk, mate. Eze is going to cook you lot today. 🦅
Kwame locked his phone, a strange, unsettling feeling creeping into his chest.
In football, arrogance before kickoff is a dangerous, poisonous thing. When a team expects to win without suffering, the pitch usually has a cruel way of reminding them that the Premier League respects absolutely no one.
"Ready, Kwame?" the photographer called out.
Kwame stood up, pushing the bad feeling down.
"Ready."
Saturday. 2:45 PM. Old Trafford - The VIP Box.
The atmosphere inside the Theatre of Dreams was bordering on a carnival.
The sun was shining. The pitch was immaculate. The fans were singing songs about winning the league before the players had even walked out of the tunnel.
Up in the premium, glass-fronted VIP suite near the halfway line, Kwame stood near the front, dressed impeccably in his tailored midnight-blue club suit.
To his right stood Afia, looking sharp in a designer blazer, chatting with a club executive. To his left was Chloe, pointing out various celebrities in the lower tiers.
And standing right next to him, leaning against the glass railing, was Maya.
She had caught the tram up from her new university dorms, wearing a stylish, oversized vintage United jacket.
"It feels weird seeing you up here in a suit instead of down there in the mud," Maya smiled, looking up at him. "Are you secretly dying inside?"
"A little," Kwame admitted, his hands tucked into his pockets. "I hate watching. It feels like you have no control over what happens."
Maya bumped her shoulder against his. "They'll be fine, Sturdy. Look at them."
Down on the pitch, the teams were walking out.
Elias Thorne had rotated heavily. Kobbie Mainoo, Kieran Cross, and Bruno Fernandes anchored the midfield. Amad, Hojlund, and Leo formed the front three. It was a terrifyingly strong lineup, even without the General.
The stadium announcer roared the names. The crowd cheered lazily, confidently.
FWEET!
The referee blew the whistle for kickoff.