Chapter 399: Halftime
"EMBARRASSING. ABSOLUTELY EMBARRASSING. I don’t even know what to say anymore.
This team has no spine. No spine.
You had this kid humiliate you at Old Trafford last season in the Europa League. You watched him knock you out. You watched him announce himself on your own pitch.
And then, a few months later, he moves to Manchester City and you let him do it again.
Brighton kept him quiet. Spurs kept him quiet. But Manchester United? Forty-five minutes, two goals and an assist.
We are literally being used for a highlight reel by a 16-year-old kid."
Mark Goldbridge was halfway between rage and disbelief, both hands raised toward his camera as the live chat beside him moved too quickly to read.
The split-screen on the television showed his watch-along on one side and the halftime broadcast from the Etihad on the other. The match feed had cut to adverts now, leaving only the score graphic lingering in the corner like a wound United fans could not stop staring at.
In the Brandt apartment in Darmstadt, João lay across the couch with a bowl of popcorn resting against his stomach, laughing so hard he almost spilled half of it onto the floor.
He had watched every minute of the first half with growing disbelief. First, he celebrated Lukas’ opening goal. Then he jumped off the couch after the second. Finally, he collapsed back onto the cushions when Foden made it three just before halftime.
Now, with the match paused and Goldbridge in full meltdown, he had the look of someone enjoying theatre more than football.
Goldbridge leaned closer to the camera, his voice rising again.
"And don’t even get me started on the recruitment.
Wilcox, Berrada, whoever you want to name, they keep talking about projects, kids, potential, future, all of that. Fine.
But this particular kid was in Frankfurt. You saw firsthand what he could do. He literally did it to you in a European semi-final.
And Manchester City go and sign him. City!
𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦
They lose Kevin De Bruyne and somehow find someone with even more potential than Kevin De Bruyne had at that age.
Kevin De Bruyne was not doing this at 16. Nobody was doing this at 16. Even Lamine Yamal wasn’t doing this at 16."
João tossed a few pieces of popcorn into his mouth, still grinning as Goldbridge continued to spiral.
"That left-hand side is cooked. Absolutely cooked.
Dorgu and Luke Shaw are on toast.
Amorim needs wing-backs. He needs midfielders. He needs somebody who can actually stop a player running at them, because this is ridiculous.
Lukas Brandt has made this look like a training session. A training session.
In a Manchester derby."
João shook his head, laughing under his breath.
"Lukas, you mad bastard."
The adverts on the match feed rolled on, but João’s attention drifted to his phone when Instagram lit up in his hand.
At the top of the app, Joanna’s profile picture had the coloured ring around it. She had posted a story.
He tapped it.
The video opened from the Etihad stands, filmed from Joanna’s seat.
The camera shook slightly as it focused on Lukas near the corner flag after his first goal. His left hand was placed across his stomach, his right arm stretched outward as he bowed toward the City supporters while the entire stadium roared around him.
The noise through the phone speakers was distorted from how loud it had been, but even through the crackle João could hear the madness of the moment.
Then Joanna flipped the camera.
Her face appeared on screen, bright with joy, laughing as she celebrated, the black City shirt visible beneath her jacket.
She looked happier than João had seen her in months, maybe years, and for a second he smiled simply because his sister was smiling like that.
Then the camera shifted slightly to the left.
João’s smile froze.
Beside Joanna was a girl in a Manchester United shirt, smiling despite the fact her team had just been scored against.
She had bright eyes, soft features, and the kind of easy beauty that made him sit up without realizing he had done it.
The clip lasted barely two seconds before the story ended, but João kept staring at the screen long after it had disappeared, as if replaying the image from memory.
He tapped back to the story, watched it again, and paused in the same place.
The girl was still there, half-turned toward Joanna, laughing in the middle of enemy territory.
João forgot the popcorn.
He forgot Goldbridge.
He even forgot, for a moment, that his best friend had just scored twice in a Manchester derby.
He opened the reply box beneath Joanna’s story and typed immediately.
"Who’s that girl next to you?"
* * *
The Manchester United dressing room was almost pin-drop silent.
Players sat in front of their lockers with heads lowered, shirts damp, socks half-rolled down, boots planted heavily against the floor as if the weight of the first half had followed them into the room. Amad had his elbows on his knees, staring at the ground. Dorgu sat with a towel over one shoulder, breathing through his nose, not looking at anyone. Luke Shaw leaned back with his eyes closed, while De Ligt kept rubbing the back of his neck, replaying the goals in his head even though there was no screen in front of him.
Harry Maguire was one of the few standing together with Bruno Fernandes.
He had been on the bench, so he had watched the collapse from a different kind of helplessness. He walked a few steps into the middle of the room, clapped his hands once, and tried to drag something out of the group before the manager arrived.
"Come on, boys. There’s still forty-five minutes to go. We can’t sit here feeling sorry for ourselves. We get one goal, the game changes. We put pressure on them, we win the next duel, we win the next second ball, and we make them feel us. Come on. Heads up."
A few players looked up, but most didn’t.
30 seconds later, the door opened.
Rúben Amorim walked in.
Carlos Fernandes followed behind him, carrying a tablet, but he did not speak. He didn’t need to. Amorim’s face already said enough. The United manager stopped just inside the room and looked around at his players, one by one, his jaw tight, his eyes moving from Bruno to Ugarte, from Shaw to Dorgu, from De Ligt to Yoro.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then his voice cut through the room.
"Where is the fight?"
Nobody answered.
Amorim took a step forward.
"Where is the fight? How does that happen? Everything we trained during the week, everything we spoke about, everything we prepared for, gone in 45 minutes. No intensity. No aggression. Nobody puts a tackle in. Nobody stops the first run. Nobody stops the second run. You let a kid who has to go to school tomorrow dance through you and score two goals in a derby."
The words hit harder because he wasn’t shouting at full volume yet. He was speaking with control, but the anger underneath it was obvious, and that somehow made the room feel even smaller.
He turned toward Dorgu.
"Patrick."
Dorgu looked up slowly.
"What is going on?"