The air in the visitors' dressing room at the King Power Stadium was thick with the smell of Deep Heat and energy drinks.
The players sat, some towelling off sweat, others taking huge gulps of water, all eyes on one man.
José Mourinho, calm as ever, let the silence hang for a moment before speaking.
"You guys played well in the first half," he began, his voice a low, analytical monotone.
He gave a single, sharp nod—the highest form of praise he'd offer right now.
"But 'well' is not 'perfect'. There are points to note."
He wheeled the large tactical board in front of him, its white surface covered in magnets and marker-pen arrows.
"First," he said, tapping a red magnet in the centre of the pitch.
"When dealing with their organized defensive block, our coordination was... lacking. The covering movements, the support for the man on the ball... it was not good enough."
He looked around the room, his gaze lingering on his midfield trio.
"Think carefully. Weren't Leicester City's defensive rotations minimal? They were not forced to scramble. They were comfortable."
He let the criticism land.
"This is because your off-the-ball movement was too limited. You were static. You failed to significantly disrupt their shape. From now on, every player in possession must demand an option. You must pay more attention to linking up, not just in your immediate space, but across the pitch."
Mourinho's brow furrowed.
He seemed somewhat hesitant, as if weighing up whether to add the next point, but he pressed on.
"Also... the final ball. The crossing quality and our shot conversion were poor. This leads to very low efficiency. We are wasting our entries."
His eyes found Jeremy Ling.
"Ling," he said, his voice softening almost imperceptibly.
"You did the first part. You beat your man. But after completing the breakthrough, you do not need to rush the cross. You have the skill. Use your dribbling to keep going. Continuously compress their defensive line. Drag them all the way back to the penalty area. Make them panic."
Ling, who had been laser-focused on the board, processed this.
He pictured the geometry of the pitch, the movement of the defenders.
He saw what Mourinho meant.
He ventured a reply, his voice quiet but clear.
"Boss, I understand. You want me to make their defence lose its elasticity. To pull them so deep and so tight that they can't spring back out to effectively protect the area around the edge of the box."
A smile flickered across Mourinho's face.
He snapped his fingers, a sharp crack in the quiet room.
"Exactly. That is the idea."
.....
In the adjacent dressing room, the atmosphere couldn't have been more different.
There was no quiet analysis, only thumping passion.
Craig Shakespeare was pacing, his face red, trying to pump up his players.
"We had a good start!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "But Manchester United scored first. So what!"
He jabbed a finger towards their crest.
"Remember who you are! You are champion players! When facing difficulties and setbacks, you never choose to retreat! That's not the Leicester way!"
"Boys, get pumped up! Get out there and show these fans your strength! Show them the champions!"
The veterans—Wes Morgan, Jamie Vardy, Shinji Okazaki, and Riyad Mahrez—were the first to their feet.
They had weathered far worse than a 1-0 halftime deficit.
Under their leadership, the entire Leicester squad formed a tight circle, stacking their hands in the centre as if transferring strength to one another.
A guttural, unified roar.
"LET'S GO!!!"
....
The Second Half
The fifteen-minute break passed in a flash, and the King Power Stadium roared back to life.
The second half began, and Manchester United's new instructions were immediately clear.
They decisively pushed their formation forward, seizing the game's tempo.
The focus, even more so than before, was funnelled down the left flank.
After receiving a pass from Matic, Ling didn't immediately try to burst past Simpson.
Instead, he slowed, put his foot on the ball, and surveyed his options, inviting the defender to commit.
His playing style was no longer the direct, straight-line assault of the first half; it had become more patient, more probing.
He was a conductor, not just a soloist.
But the real tactical shift, the one that truly troubled Leicester, was the positional swap between Antonio Valencia and Daley Blind, which Mourinho had ordered to create new angles of attack.
....
🎙️ In the Sky Sports Commentary Box
"Well, Martin, it's clear Mourinho's had a word," said Gary Neville, his monitor replaying United's patient build-up.
"At this stage, United's positional attacks are looking far more sophisticated. They're using their full-backs to provide the absolute maximum width."
"And look at this, Gary," Martin Tyler chimed in. "The movement in the half-spaces from Ling, Mkhitaryan, and Mata... it's much more fluid."
"That's exactly it," Neville agreed, his pen circling the three players.
"They're not just 'wingers' or 'number tens' anymore. They're making runs around that central axis, trying to advance the attack by increasing connectivity. This is smart. José is deliberately practicing central progression and penetration. This is a significant change from the United we saw last season. They look like they're finally getting on the right track."
....
Time ticked on. The match entered its 64th minute.
Wilfred Ndidi, the powerful Leicester midfielder, dribbled near the centre circle.
He found himself swarmed by Mkhitaryan and under pressure, shanked a desperate, diagonal long ball.
It was a horrible, spinning pass, aimed vaguely towards the right flank.
It was fast, spinning wickedly inwards, and should have been an easy clearance.
But the target was Riyad Mahrez.
The Algerian's feet, seemingly coated with glue, killed the ball dead.
He plucked it from the sky as if it were a piece of fruit, a moment of sublime control that drew an involuntary gasp from the crowd.
He was truly, one of the best in the world at receiving a pass.
Seeing the danger, Nemanja Matić immediately shout.
"Press him! Now! Don't give him a chance to turn!"
The trap snapped shut.
Matić, Valencia, and Ling—who had tracked back diligently—closed on Mahrez from three different directions.
Mahrez, a magician in a phone box, looked for an escape.
He saw Okazaki making a run, but Pogba was already blanketing him.
He was on his own.
He shimmied, feinted, and somehow slithered past Valencia.
But the triple-press was too much.
As he tried to cut back, the long leg of Matić reached in and cleanly intercepted the ball.
In that same split second, Ling, seeing his teammate win the tackle, didn't wait.
He didn't check if the pass was secure.
He trusted them.
He turned and sprinted, exploding into the vast, open green space behind the Leicester line.
Matić, the lynchpin, simply laid the ball sideways to Mkhitaryan
The Armenian, dropping deep, was about to do the sensible thing—stabilize possession, restart the attack.
But then he heard it.
A single, sharp shout.
"MICKY!"
He didn't even need to look.
He glanced up, saw the blur of Ling's run, and with audacious, perfect technique, chipped a through ball over the top.
Crack.
The crisp sound of the connection.
The ball traced a beautiful parabola, dropping perfectly, devastatingly, into the path of the sprinting young man.
"Oh, a beautiful pass! A brilliant run!" Martin Tyler's voice rose to a crescendo.
"Manchester United's swift counterattack is on! Here comes Ling! Can they seize the opportunity?"
Ling controlled the ball in one fluid, perfect motion.
The turf flew from his boots as he charged forward.
He was at the edge of the Leicester penalty area.
Danny Simpson, his marker, knew he couldn't retreat another step.
This was the red zone.
He stepped up, planting his feet, adopting an impeccable, low defensive stance.
'You're absolutely not getting past me this time! 'Simpson thought, his eyes fixed on the ball.
Ling, his heart hammering, saw Simpson's stance.
But he also saw, out of the corner of his eye, a red shirt steaming forward on the overlap.
It was Valencia.
This was the moment.
Compress the defence.
Ling drifted, ever so slightly, inward.
Not a full-on dribble, but just enough to pull Simpson with him, to create that extra yard of space on the flank.
He slowed his pace, just fractionally.
Then, he dipped his shoulder and drew back his right foot.
The fake shot.
It was a textbook sell.
Simpson, desperate to block the shot, launched himself into a slide tackle.
The moment his studs hit the grass, he knew he'd been deceived.
Ling was already gone, his momentum carrying him, but not before he'd rolled the ball perfectly past the sliding defender.
It wasn't a pass to Valencia; it was a pass into the space Valencia was about to occupy.
The Ecuadorian didn't have to break stride.
He met the rolling ball with a composed, side-footed push, guiding it low and hard across the goal.
Schmeichel had no chance.
The ball nestled calmly into the far corner.
2-0, Manchester United.
The King Power Stadium was stunned into silence, save for the eruption from the away end.
Valencia sprinted away, roaring, looping halfway around the pitch before doubling back.
He grabbed Ling in an enthusiastic, bone-crushing embrace, grinning from ear to ear.
He thought to himself, finally.
A four-month goal drought was over.
Let them call him "Valencia the Non-Shooter" now.
"A delightful combination!" shouted Martin Tyler.
"In the 65th minute, Manchester United extend their lead! And here, we must mention Jeremy Ling. His decision-making in the box—absolutely ice-cold. He pressured the defence, created the space, and laid it on a plate for his teammate!"
Gary Neville was purring.
"That, Martin, is what Mourinho was asking for. The intelligence to not rush the cross. The skill to sell the fake, the vision to find the pass. That's pure football intelligence."
...
📱 On the Twitter Timeline
@UnitedWay (RedDevilsFan99): LIIIIIIIIIIING!!!! THAT'S MY WINGER!! 😭😭😭 ASSIST! ICE COLD! WHAT A PLAYER!
@OliverKay_TheTimes (Oliver Kay): That goal is 100% Mourinho. Patient build-up, a brutal, high-speed counter, and a moment of individual brilliance (Ling's fake shot) to unlock a clinical finish. This is the new Man Utd.
@BlueFox (Mark_LCFC): That's it. I'm going home. FFS. Can't even be mad, that was a class goal. We've been completely out-thought.
...
As the celebrations died down, Martin Tyler suddenly noticed activity on the sideline.
"Eh, is Manchester United making a substitution already?"
The fourth official's board went up.
Red: No. 39, McTominay. Green: No. 23, Jeremy Ling.
Red: No. 27, Fellaini. Green: No. 22, Mkhitaryan.
A double change.
The away section rose as one, a tireless, roaring standing ovation for the departing architects of the second goal.
Ling saw his number.
He first acknowledged the supporters, clapping his hands above his head, a gesture of thanks.
Then, he briskly jogged toward the sideline.
He had no objections.
He was gassed.
With a two-goal lead and 25 minutes to play, bringing on the towering Fellaini and the disciplined McTominay to reinforce the defence was the obvious clinical move.
His earlier relentless dribbling had drained his stamina rapidly; his legs felt like lead.
He couldn't provide that same explosive impact anymore.
At the edge of the pitch, Ling exchanged a high-five with Scott McTominay.
"Go for it, Scotty!" he panted.
The latter nodded, his face a mask of firm determination.
He then turned to his manager.
Mourinho didn't smile.
He simply extended a hand, gripped Ling's, and gave him a firm, appreciative pat on the shoulder.
"Good game," he said, before immediately turning back to shout instructions at Fellaini.
For Ling, it was all the praise he needed.
After play resumed, Manchester United, under Mourinho's adjustments.
The formation dropped deeper, became a compact, dual-layered red wall, and consistently neutralized Leicester City's increasingly desperate attacks.
McTominay, whose ability was still raw, was a picture of modest efficiency, running hard, making simple passes, and doing his defensive duties.
Ultimately, the final whistle blew, its piercing shriek confirming a dominant, intelligent, and hard-earned victory.