While the digital world raged with debate—forums crashing, Twitter hashtags trending, and a thousand new YouTube compilations being hastily edited—the subjects of all that noise were already insulated from it, cocooned within the familiar luxury of the club bus.
The M6 motorway was a dark, rain-slicked ribbon unwinding in the night.
Inside, however, the atmosphere was bright.
The bus was filled with the easy laughter and cheerful buzz of a job well done.
It was the sound of three points, of relief, of a clean sheet.
Everyone's face, illuminated by the glow of a phone or the dim overhead lights, beamed with a smile, though a closer look revealed the subtle differences in their relief.
Romelu Lukaku, having confidently dispatched his penalty, was in a full-on charm offensive, boasting with a grin to his long-distance Latin American girlfriend over FaceTime, promising to dedicate the next one to her.
Paul Pogba, his noise-cancelling headphones a fortress against the world, struck a trendy, relaxed pose, his head nodding almost imperceptibly to the heavy bass of a rap track.
Further back, Juan Mata spoke gently into his phone, his voice soft as he patiently recounted the details of the match, simplifying the tactics for his young son.
But not all the smiles were so simple.
Phil Jones sat by the window, his large frame slumped in weary satisfaction, gazing at his teammates.
As the bus rumbled on, he felt a profound, almost surreal sense of emptiness, as if a dream he'd been chasing for a decade had suddenly, quietly, materialized into reality.
He recalled his journey, joining this colossal club as a bullish, fearless 18-year-old, eagerly anticipated by fans across England.
He wasn't just a prospect; he was the prospect.
He'd been hailed as the successor to John Terry, a future England captain.
Some, in hushed, reverent tones, had even claimed he would one day become the Duncan Edwards of this era—a devastating comparison to the legendary, peerless talent lost in the Munich tragedy.
But fate, as it so often does, had other plans.
He never managed to secure a foothold during the peak, unbreachable years of the Ferdinand and Vidić partnership.
He was always the apprentice, waiting.
Then came the injuries.
A persistent, cruel, and seemingly endless battle with his own body that wasted much of his prime.
The promise had curdled into a punchline.
Then, this spring, seeds planted long ago finally began to sprout.
He felt fit. He felt strong. And, most importantly, he felt trusted.
Gradually, game by game, he solidified his position.
He was, at last, Manchester United's starting centre-back.
Phil Jones touched the embroidered club crest on his chest.
His story was far from over. There was still a long, long road ahead.
At the very front of the bus, José Mourinho sat alone, expressionless, his gaze fixed on the endless stream of red taillights rushing past in the gloom.
He had never been one to conceal his ambitions.
He had, on multiple occasions before the season even began, declared his intent to chase titles.
Not a title.
Titles.
Naturally, his displayed arrogance and unshakeable audacity drew criticism.
Many, including some Manchester United fans, found his confidence abrasive.
They wanted the humility of Sir Alex, forgetting the "hairdryer" and the "squeaky-bum time" mind games.
But in truth, what he pursued wasn't merely personal glory.
He'd already achieved that, many times over.
If it were, he wouldn't have thrown his winner's and runner-up medals into the stands in the past, giving them away to the fans.
He craved victory, yes, but he craved it as a confirmation—a validation of his process, his project, and his bond with the club he was leading.
Mourinho pushed aside the scattered philosophical thoughts and sank into the cold, hard contemplation of tactics.
Manchester United still had many shortcomings.
They were a work in progress, and some of those flaws needed urgent resolution to avoid falling behind in the relentless marathon of the league campaign.
As the pundits and fans were no doubt pointing out, for a team that could be so devastating on the counter-attack, their inefficiency in sustained, "normal" offence was a potentially fatal weakness.
It violated the first principle of efficiency.
It contradicted his entire philosophy.
He had, for now, used Jeremy Ling as a tactical battering ram, forcibly increasing the breakthroughs on the wings to boost the overall attacking threat.
But he was a realist.
In modern professional football, any tactical approach—no matter how novel—would be dissected, analyzed, and neutralized within a matter of days.
He could already see it: Opponents would double up, strengthening effective interceptions and containment on that left flank.
They would use movement and pressure to establish numerical superiority in the central areas, cutting off Ling's supply line.
They could neutralize the threat, and United would be back to square one.
On United's central axis, Pogba and Lukaku were titans, but they covered limited ground in the defensive transition.
They couldn't, or wouldn't, always keep up with the rapid vertical movements along the wings.
This structural gap often left Jeremy Ling isolated in the most precarious, advanced situations.
He was caught in a dilemma.
He couldn't further increase the left flank's offensive involvement; it would be tactical suicide, leaving them exposed and making Ling a marked, isolated asset.
Yet, not doing so would trap them back in the sterile, possession-based cycle of the previous season, lacking the explosive breakthroughs needed to elevate the tempo and kill off games.
How to solve this?
Mourinho rubbed his temples, a familiar ache beginning to throb.
He suddenly, instinctively, turned his head to look toward the back of the bus.
There, Jeremy Ling sat by the window, oblivious to the manager's gaze, his world shrunk to the 10-inch screen of his tablet.
He was already at work, meticulously reviewing footage.
He had played a full 65 minutes today, so there was plenty to analyze.
If he didn't finish it on the bus, he'd likely be up late at home, working on it.
And tomorrow, his "day off," would be another busy day: recovery training in the morning, a two-hour driver's license lesson in the afternoon, and makeup classes for his A-Levels in the evening.
The grind was relentless.
The Champions League group stage would kick off in just three days.
Fortunately, United were playing at home against Basel, sparing them the hassle of international travel.
But another monster awaited just four days after that: Manchester United versus Everton.
The fixture was a sportswriter's dream, dripping with intriguing storylines.
It was Lukaku's first match against the team he'd just left, and, more poignantly, it was Wayne Rooney's first return to Old Trafford in a different club's shirt.
For United, this season marked the first in 13 years without Rooney's name on the team sheet.
For Everton, this was supposed to be their year.
Beyond acquiring their legend on a free transfer, they had splashed £150 million in the market.
They signed goalkeeper Jordan Pickford, centre-back Michael Keane, Iceland's "Sniper" Gylfi Sigurðsson, and the young Dutch international Davy Klaassen.
After strengthening every single position, they aimed to shatter the glass ceiling and challenge for Champions League qualification.
Reality, however, had already dealt Everton a harsh blow.
They had only won one of their first four Premier League matches.
But as Ling scrolled through their results, he knew the record was misleading.
Their opponents? Stoke City, Manchester City, Chelsea, and Tottenham.
Three of them were part of the "Big Six."
Losing those games wasn't a shock.
They would be hungry, wounded, and desperate for a statement win.
Ling rubbed his tired eyes and focused as he open the system.
It already showed one goal and two assists.
If he could feature in the upcoming Champions League and League Cup matches, he should be able to complete his introductory mission soon.
But one thing was gnawing at him.
Why was his dribbling stat still stuck at 79.99? without any movement.
Suddenly, an idea struck him.
He recalled that sensation during the match—a faint, frustrating mismatch between his brain and his body.
Simply put, his mind could visualize the move, the perfect feint, the shift of a defender's centre of gravity, but his muscles couldn't execute it in time.
Ling had a vague suspicion.
If his raw talent was water, then his body was the container.
Although the system had forcibly elevated his talent—the software—his body was still a developing 18-year-old's.
The hardware was still playing catch-up, and the two were out of sync. It was like having a container with a limited capacity.
No matter how much water you poured in, it was useless. I
t just spilled over, a waste of effort.
In that case, the solution was clear.
He needed to stop focusing on the talent and start focusing on the container. He needed to ramp up his physical conditioning.
As for Mourinho's famous "piano theory"—his belief that players were artists who needed to practice their craft, not just athletes who needed to run—it probably didn't apply to someone like him, who was, for all intents and purposes, cheating the system.
Ling's thoughts grew clearer.
When you thought about it, the unparalleled, terrifying advantage Ronaldo—the original Ronaldo, "the Fenômenon"—had back then was largely due to his explosive, otherworldly physical attributes.
Otherwise, why would fans call him "The fenomenon"?
That Klay Thompson injury that had shocked the NBA? Ronaldo had suffered the same devastating patellar tendon rupture twice, once in each leg.
Yet, he'd returned three years later.
That in itself highlighted his monstrous physical prowess.
Ling sighed silently.
He, too, needed to manage his training intensity, but in a different way.
He had to build the vessel, but not break it. He couldn't peak too early and decline prematurely.
Before he knew it, the club bus was pulling into the familiar, gated entrance of the Carrington training base.
The players, groaning and stretching, got off and said their goodbyes, scattering to their cars.
Then, Scott McTominay, his lanky frame silhouetted by the security lights, suddenly spoke up.
"Ling, it's been a while since you played games with us."
Ling paused, zipping up his bag.
"FIFA 18 just came out the day before yesterday," Scott continued, a hopeful grin on his face. "I even bought you the most expensive edition—the one that comes with the Ronaldo card. Since we don't have much on tomorrow..."
Seeing the genuine anticipation on his friend's face, Jeremy couldn't bring himself to refuse.
His packed schedule could wait.
"Alright," he smiled. "Let's get Rashy to join us too. It's been ages since we all played FIFA together."
Two hours later, Scott and Marcus hadn't had their fill and were ready to pull an all-nighter.
But Ling, ever the disciplined one, reasoned with them, persuading them to call it a night.
...
The next day, Ling stuck rigorously to his plan, filling his schedule to the brim.
Recovery. Driving lesson. Classes.
Over the next two days, he continued his routine, shuttling between the three fixed spots: his flat, Carrington, and the tutoring centre.
And just like that, it was September 13th.
The day of the first round of the Champions League group stage.
Manchester United vs. Basel.