The halftime whistle offered a brief reprieve, and the Manchester United players filed back into the sanctuary of the home locker room.
The adrenaline of the first half was still pumping, but the atmosphere was focused, not frantic.
After everyone had settled, grabbing water bottles and wiping away sweat, José Mourinho clapped his hands lightly.
The sound cut through the murmurs.
"Well done, lads," he said, a rare, genuine smile softening his features. "You deserve the credit. You controlled the tempo, you controlled the space."
He then walked over to the magnetic tactics board, his demeanor shifting instantly back to business.
He moved a blue magnet representing Gylfi Sigurðsson.
"I think you've all noticed," Mourinho began, tapping the board. "Sigurðsson is ghosting today. His form is poor. His decision-making is inefficient, his positioning is erratic, and when he actually gets the ball, he is disconnected. He looks only for the glory shot or the impossible through-ball."
Mourinho swept his hand across the left side of the Everton formation.
"That is why all of their threats came from their right. Their left flank? It's a graveyard. Completely quiet."
"So," he looked at Matić and Fellaini, "we continue to suffocate him. Sever the link. If Sigurðsson cannot turn, Rooney cannot eat."
The instructions were clear, concise, and brutal.
As the players joked internally, even Mario Balotelli could probably understand them.
As the break neared its end and the referee's bell rang, Mourinho stopped Jeremy Ling near the door.
He leaned in, lowering his voice.
"Ling. Don't worry about your fitness tank from now on. I want you to go all out attacking that left flank. Burn everything you have." Mourinho checked his watch. "I'll sub you off at the right time. Until then, run them into the ground."
Ling nodded with a flicker of determination in his eyes.
He asked a quick question about defensive tracking on set pieces, received a nod, and followed his teammates back into the tunnel.
...
Old Trafford grew noisy once again as the second half commenced.
The fans, sensing blood in the water, raised the volume of their chants.
In the 57th minute, the moment arrived.
Jeremy Ling received a sharp pass from Matić near the touchline.
He paused briefly, the ball glued to his instep, and then drove straight into the left inside channel—the same area he had exploited for the first goal.
But Everton had learned.
Or so they thought.
Michael Keane and Idrissa Gueye, realizing Ling was attempting to replicate his earlier magic, closed in without hesitation.
It was a coordinated pincer movement, a flawless double-team designed to crush him.
At the same time, young Tom Davies, having learned his painful lesson from the first half, stuck tightly to Nemanja Matić, denying Ling the backward passing lane.
The trap was set.
Ling was boxed in.
But just as the ball was about to be stolen, Ling had a sudden flash of inspiration.
He didn't panic; he improvised.
With a sharp pull back of the ball with his sole to evade Keane's stab, followed instantly by a lightning-quick flick of his right foot behind his standing leg—a La Croqueta performed in a phone booth—he demonstrated his absolute mastery over the ball.
Smack!
The ball traced a perfect, impossible angled path, slipping through the minuscule gap between the two colliding defenders.
"Oh my word! An effortlessly elegant move!"
In the Sky Sports broadcast studio, Martin nearly jumped out of his chair.
An electric current surged through him, his scalp tingling.
"Flawless timing! Flawless precision! In a tight marking situation with multiple defenders, Jeremy Ling has utilized pure individual skill to unlock the defense! This is the arrogance of youth in the best possible way!"
On the pitch, the Everton defense had collapsed.
Ashley Young, reading the play like a veteran, was already thundering down the flank.
He latched onto Ling's through-ball, charging toward the byline.
The Everton backline, having been drawn into the middle to stop Ling, was in disarray.
Meanwhile, Romelu Lukaku charged toward the near post like a frenzied rhinoceros, dragging both Williams and Jagielka with him in a panic.
The space at the edge of the box opened up like the Red Sea.
Ashley Young slowed his pace, looked up, and delivered a calm, surgical cutback to the edge of the penalty area.
Henrikh Mkhitaryan was standing there, completely unmarked.
The Armenian playmaker watched the ball all the way onto his boot.
Thump!
He didn't smash it.
He caressed it.
A simple yet precise curled shot sent the ball arcing dramatically away from Pickford, grazing the inside of the right post before nestling into the net.
3-0!!!
The Stretford End exploded.
The LED screens replayed the build-up—the flick from Ling, the run from Young, the finish from Mkhitaryan—and the satisfaction was palpable.
"GLORY, GLORY, MAN UNITED!"
Mkhitaryan sprinted toward the corner flag, winding up to kick it in a burst of passion, before remembering he was already on a warning and awkwardly stopping himself.
Nearby, Ashley Young grabbed Ling by the shoulders, shaking him.
"How? How did you do that?"
Ling grinned, flexing a bicep that was becoming more defined by the week.
"All through hard work, of course," he deadpanned, before adding with feigned profundity, "You'll have to get used to it, Ash."
Young laughed, shaking his head.
He felt a sudden epiphany—he needed to train harder. If the kids were this good, he had to fight to keep up.
On the other side, the Everton players looked broken.
Shoulders slumped, hands on hips. They exchanged glances, but no words came.
Finally, Wayne Rooney stepped forward.
He clapped his hands aggressively, shouting at his teammates.
"Forget the score! Look at the badge! Let's play with pride from now on! Do not let those fans down!"
The match resumed, but the dynamic had shifted permanently.
With a three-goal cushion, Manchester United played with a swagger, launching relentless waves of attacks.
Everton, treating the situation as a battle for dignity, defended with a desperate physicality.
Whenever Ling touched the ball, he was swarmed.
The challenges grew heavier, clumsier.
In the 68th minute, Ling executed two rapid step-overs, breaking past Michael Keane on the outside.
Keane, humiliated and exhausted, resorted to hauling him down by the shirt. Both players tumbled to the turf.
The referee's yellow card was instant.
Two minutes later, seeing Ling dusting himself off, Mourinho made the call. He signaled to the fourth official.
OUT: Jeremy Ling IN: Jesse Lingard
Surprisingly, Ronald Koeman also made a change.
OUT: Wayne Rooney IN: Kevin Mirallas
The two players—one the rising star in red, the other the returning legend in blue—walked off the pitch simultaneously.
The applause from Old Trafford was thunderous, a standing ovation that honored both the future and the past.
Rooney was clearly in a foul mood.
The competitor in him hated the scoreline, hated the performance.
He shook Koeman's hand briefly, head lowered, and marched toward the bench.
But he stopped.
Someone was standing in his path, waiting quietly.
"Wayne. Long time no see."
José Mourinho smiled, his hand extended.
Rooney froze.
His expression was a complex tapestry of emotions. He looked at the Portuguese manager and couldn't help but recall the past year.
When Mourinho first arrived, he had declared Rooney would never be a midfielder, that he was a striker.
He gave him chances.
But time remains undefeated. Rooney's legs had gone, his explosiveness vanished.
Mourinho had eventually benched him.
But contrary to the media narrative of a feud, Rooney bore no resentment.
Mourinho had been honest.
He had been respectful. In a world of footballing lies, Mourinho had told him the hard truth to his face.
Reflecting on the man before him, Rooney saw the contradictions—arrogant yet attentive, ruthless yet loyal.
Setting aside the tangled thoughts, Rooney reached out and firmly grasped Mourinho's hand.
A brief nod, a shared look of understanding, and he walked on.
...
Off the pitch, the narratives were being written.
On it, the game wound down.
United shifted into a lower gear, adopting a defensive counter-attacking shape to preserve energy.
This was where Marouane Fellaini shone brightest.
Partnering with Matić, the big Belgian became a human shield, intercepting passes and bullying the Everton midfield.
Without Rooney, Everton's attack lost its focal point.
They were toothless.
Time slipped away, dissolved in the cheers of the home crowd.
When the referee finally blew the whistle, the scoreboard told the story of a dominant, tactical masterclass.
Manchester United 3-0 Everton!
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Ok Vote here :
Should the mc naturalize and play for england.
Or
Let mc keep playing for china ?\
Decide.
I want to write the next chapter but in the raw the mc choose to keep playing for china 😭