Cristiano Ronaldo glanced back at Claire, who stood calmly in their own half, and couldn't help but feel a rush of satisfaction. That goal was pure bliss—for both the forwards and midfielders. A long-range "pinpoint pass" that only required someone to be at the goalmouth to tap it in. Only Manchester United's academy could drill that kind of fundamentals into players. When Claire first pitched the plan, Ronaldo had been nervous, but he was thrilled it worked out, especially since he'd put his trust in it and carried the team's faith to pull it off.
While Ronaldo was lost in thought, Claire stood composed, scanning for his chance to score. His next move relied heavily on the boost from his music's energy.
This time, Alan Smith, subbing in for Rooney, took the kickoff. His pass to Park Ji-sung was routine, and Park quickly returned it. The two pinged the ball back and forth, while Newcastle's forwards, rattled by United's last attack, hesitated to press forward.
United's front line and midfield were in sync, moving like a well-oiled machine. Not only did Newcastle fail to press for three whole minutes, but United kept pushing them back. Newcastle's coach, Glenn Roeder, was stunned. He'd never seen this tactic before, and whenever he tried to read Sir Alex Ferguson's expression, he found no clues—no counter-strategy, nothing.
Just as Newcastle scrambled for answers, Park, after countless passes with Ronaldo and Smith, suddenly sent the ball back toward United's own goal. The moment this happened, United's midfielders charged toward Newcastle's goal like men possessed. Newcastle's players, though confused, knew how to defend their net.
At the same time, United's keeper, receiving the ball, swiftly sent it to Claire Lee's feet. Newcastle weren't clueless—Michael Owen was marking Claire tightly. But Claire wasn't fazed. With a chest trap and the stamina he'd built up in the first half, he muscled past Owen, driving toward Newcastle's half.
It wasn't just Newcastle who were shocked—MUTV's Lucy Pinder was too. Gripping her mic, she shouted, "What a wild attacking move! No-defender offense—this isn't a joke! It's not a script! The same trick is happening again against Newcastle!"
Sir Bobby Charlton watched Claire, poised to take on Owen one-on-one, with keen interest. When Lucy turned to him for his take, he smiled and said, "First off, this kind of attack wouldn't work in the Premier League normally. It's only because Newcastle's coach is too young and lacks quick thinking that they're in this mess."
But Sir Bobby held back his bigger thoughts. If United had issues at the season's start, half a season of gelling had turned them into a force of nature. With Claire Lee as the midfield linchpin, directing plays with precision, this United side was unstoppable. A satisfied smirk crossed Sir Bobby's face as the big screen showed United scoring again. It wasn't Ronaldo this time, but it proved one thing: Claire Lee, the former United academy kid, was worth far more than his £2 million annual salary.
On the pitch, Claire stayed grounded. Owen was sticking to him like glue, and if he wanted to score, he'd need his teammates' help. "Ferdinand, can you give me a hand? I wanna score," he called out.
Ferdinand's dark skin flushed slightly, a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline from the last six minutes of their frantic comeback. "F, that was unreal!" he laughed. "Don't worry, mate. No matter how many they send, I've got your back!"
"They won't dare mark me again," Claire replied. "Their formation's already in shambles. Sending more to cover me? Nah, they won't."
Newcastle kicked off again. Coach Glenn Roeder stood with hands on hips, glaring at Albert Luque, who was about to take the ball. If Roeder had been smug in the first half, he was utterly humiliated now. Luque glanced at his coach, licking his lips. He felt insulted—this was his rawest emotion of the match. He wanted redemption.
Luque's kickoff was cautious, just a few passes with teammates before he started pushing toward United's half, aiming for a solo breakthrough. Claire, seeing Luque's reckless, strategy-free charge, muttered, "We've got this. Their whole team's lost its spine."
With that, Claire didn't hesitate, sprinting straight at Luque. Ferdinand, calm as ever, slotted himself between Claire and Owen. Stealing the ball from Luque was almost too easy—Claire didn't even need his holographic vision. Luque's anger had clouded his judgment, and his sloppy dribbling was no match for Claire's quick tackle.
Lucy Pinder, standing in front of the MUTV cameras, waved her arms wildly, her voice electric. "Claire! It's Claire again! He's gotta be the man of the match! Ronaldo and Park are covering for him, setting him up!"
"They're feeding Claire the ball!"
"Claire takes off from United's half—Claire's through ball—no, wait!"
"It's a screamer! He didn't pass! Newcastle left a gap at the crucial moment!"
"GOAL!"
"They've done it!" Lucy's commentary was pure passion, her wavy hair and sweat-soaked face electrifying the fans watching on TV. In just 15 minutes, United had overtaken Newcastle, rewriting what the world thought of them.