On the Manchester United substitutes' bench, the atmosphere was tense.
"Zlatan, looks like our luck isn't great today," Ling whispered, covering his mouth as he leaned toward the giant Swede.
Ibrahimović, draped in a training bib, merely smirked, his trademark arrogance in full display.
"Luck is for the weak, menino. That is because the lion has not yet entered the arena."
After several grueling months of recovery, he was finally back in the squad.
His return to the pitch was imminent, and the very air around him seemed to crackle with anticipation.
Ling just smiled without replying, his mind already working.
He mentally reviewed the first half in case he was called upon.
United had launched numerous attacks, mostly targeting the high line and the spaces behind the Benfica defenders.
But the Portuguese side's players were exceptional at executing their offside trap, luring United's forwards into positions that repeatedly nullified their threats.
Thus, while United had dominated possession, they hadn't created many genuine, clear-cut scoring opportunities.
As the half ticked into injury time, Manchester United won a corner kick on the right side.
Mkhitaryan raised two fingers and whipped a swift delivery toward the penalty spot.
Romelu Lukaku, a behemoth among men, outjumped several defenders and powered a header into the net.
But before he could even begin to celebrate, the referee's whistle blew.
The goal was disallowed.
The referee ruled that Lukaku had used his marker for leverage, a foul while jumping.
This ignited the Estádio da Luz.
The Benfica fans, who had been nervous, erupted with deafening boos and whistles.
They seized the opportunity to mock and taunt the man in the technical area.
"Judas! Judas, what's the score?!"
"Can you only play by parking the bus, you coward?!"
"You're not special anymore!"
"Kicking you out back then was the right decision!"
Whenever they recalled how their hated rivals, Porto, had won the Champions League, the league title, and the cup under this man, it made their blood boil.
Yet Mourinho remained utterly unresponsive.
His face was stone cold.
He ignored the abuse and quickly made his way down the tunnel toward the locker room.
....
A few minutes later, the dressing room was silent as Mourinho addressed his team.
"Listen. Do not be frustrated," he said, his voice calm and analytical. "They cannot maintain this focus for the full 90 minutes. They cannot. It is impossible to sustain that high-intensity offside trap for an entire match."
"We will keep increasing the tempo. Keep the pressure. The focus remains on the left flank. I want more breakthroughs down the wings, more one-on-ones. Force them to make a decision."
He looked past the starting XI to the bench.
His eyes found Ling. "Ling. As usual. Warm up properly. You will be on around the 70th minute to finish them."
Mourinho meticulously explained the tactical adjustments, and soon, the players from both teams returned to the pitch.
The second half kicked off with the referee's whistle.
Manchester United's attacking strategy had clearly shifted.
Marcus Rashford, playing on the left, began to utilize his blistering speed, frequently taking on his man rather than looking for a pass.
The rest of the team, heeding their manager's words, began to reduce the intricate passing near the box and opted for more long-range shots.
Benfica's goalkeeper, Mile Svilar, was a Belgian prodigy.
He was also only 17 years old, and his overall technical ability was still raw.
Faced with United's relentless, calculated long-range efforts, he gradually grew flustered.
He parried a shot he should have caught.
He punched when he had time.
Benfica's entire formation had to push forward, breaking their deep, compact shape to prevent United's players from easily taking shots from distance.
But this, as Mourinho had planned, left even more space behind their defense.
Then, in the 63rd minute, the plan bore fruit.
Nemanja Matić intercepted a pass in midfield and immediately, without hesitation, sprayed it to the left wing.
Rashford accelerated explosively from a standstill, knocking the ball past the Benfica full-back, who, in a panic, grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him down.
Beeep!
Darren Fletcher (Commentator): "Oh, that's a cynical, cynical foul. Rashford was just too quick, and the defender had no choice but to haul him down. A clear yellow card, and a very dangerous free kick for Manchester United on the left side of the attacking third. This is prime territory..."
Rio Ferdinand : "This is what they've been working on, Daz. Forcing the defenders into bad situations. Now, who's on it? Mkhitaryan? Mata?"
Fletcher: "No... it looks like Marcus Rashford fancies it himself. He's placed the ball. He's going for it..."
Rashford quietly took five steps back.
He took a deep breath, his eyes locked on the top corner, recalling the thousands of hours he'd spent studying his idol's free-kick technique.
His run-up and shot were executed seamlessly.
The ball soared high toward the top of the goal, looking for all the world like it was going over... before it suddenly, violently, dipped and swerved with no spin.
A perfect knuckleball.
Svilar, the 17-year-old keeper, had positioned himself too far forward, expecting a cross.
He jumped too late and could only wave at the air as the ball rocketed past him.
He paid the ultimate price for his inexperience.
Fletcher: "RASHFORD! OH, A STUNNING STRIKE! A VICIOUS KNUCKLEBALL! He's caught the young keeper completely off guard, and Manchester United have the lead! What a goal from Marcus Rashford!"
The Estádio da Luz was stunned into silence, save for one small corner.
The traveling United fans responded emphatically, erupting in joy, returning the earlier taunts with interest.
"Go on, shout now! Where's your famous atmosphere?"
"Judas? He just shut you up!"
"You can't even park the bus properly, why bother playing football?!"
On the sidelines, Mourinho added fuel to the fire.
He turned to the main stand, the one that had been abusing him, and slowly, deliberately, raised a single finger to his lips in a "zip it" gesture.
The stands instantly grew chaotic.
Benfica fans, incensed, began hurling whatever they had—water bottles, keychains, lighters, and some even tried to dismantle the seats to throw.
However, with the intervention of riot police holding shields, the chaos was quickly brought under control.
The match resumed.
Mourinho didn't opt for a conservative defense.
Instead, he stuck to the plan and made his substitution in the 70th minute.
On the touchline, Marcus Rashford and Jeremy Ling exchanged a high-five.
"That free kick was brilliant, man!" Ling said, his smile genuine.
"Haha, thanks. Go finish them off!" Rashford replied, breathing heavily.
Although the competition between the two young wingers was intensifying for that starting left-wing spot, it didn't affect their relationship.
Instead, they grew closer, pushing each other.
The situation on the pitch changed once again.
Following Mourinho's instructions, Ling continued the ferocious attacks down the left flank.
What troubled the Benfica players was that Ling's technical style was completely different from Rashford's.
Rashford was all explosive, straight-line pace.
Ling was more adept at using his intricate footwork, his body feints, and his close control for successive breakthroughs.
Ling seized the opportunity to showcase everything he had learned.
Low crosses with his left foot. 45-degree diagonal crosses from wide areas.
Cutting inside and unleashing curling shots.
As he constantly switched up his arsenal, Benfica's defensive line grew increasingly disorganized.
Within just ten minutes, the right-back Pereira and the midfielder Fejsa each received a yellow card for cynically hacking him down.
Of course, Ling was also covered in mud and grass stains.
Fortunately, his intelligent playing style—knowing when to release the ball and how to ride a tackle—helped him avoid any serious injuries.
83rd minute of the match.
Benfica managed a rare attack.
Pereira overlapped and delivered a cross from the byline, but under pressure from Smalling, Raúl Jiménez's header lacked power.
De Gea comfortably caught the ball mid-air and, in one motion, immediately threw it to Daley Blind on the left.
Facing Pereira's press, Blind deftly lofted a first-time pass forward.
Ling controlled the ball smoothly, quickly looked up, and delivered a stunning, 50-yard cross-field switch to the opposite flank before Fejsa could close him down.
Because Benfica had committed too many defensive resources to their right side to deal with Ling, their left was now dangerously exposed.
Juan Mata was already in position, cushioning the ball for Mkhitaryan, who was making a central run.
The Armenian then played a perfect, diagonal through-pass that sliced open Benfica's defense.
Lukaku, one-on-one, easily slotted the ball into the near corner.
0-2!
Fletcher: "Well, that is just a glorious team goal! From one end to the other in the blink of an eye! De Gea... to Blind... to Ling. And what a ball that is from Jeremy Ling! A magnificent, raking pass! Mata to Mkhitaryan... and Lukaku finishes it off! That is Mourinho football at its absolute, clinical best!"
United fans erupted once again.
Lukaku's celebration was particularly bold.
He faced the main home stand, cupped both ears, and rhythmically shook them, asking, "I can't hear you!"
This provoked the recently calmed Benfica fans into another outburst.
A volley of insults was hurled across the stands, keeping the riot police busy once more.
"Keep it low-key, Rom! We're on their turf, after all," Mata hurried over to intervene, ever the professional.
"Ling, your long passes are getting better and better," Lukaku grinned, deftly shifting the conversation.
Ling mimicked a foolish chuckle.
"It's all thanks to Carrick's coaching in training." Mata sighed helplessly, feeling as though he were babysitting.
It would be better if Ibrahimović were here.
Then again, he suddenly thought, if Zlatan were on the pitch, the celebrations would likely be even more extravagant.
86th minute of the match.
Mourinho substituted Mkhitaryan, bringing on the young Scott McTominay.
Meanwhile, Benfica's manager, Rui Vitória, his face as gloomy as stagnant water, replaced one of his defenders with a forward in a last, desperate gamble.
Vitória and Mourinho had a history.
Back when Mourinho coached Benfica, Vitória was a youth team coach at the club.
He had even been one of the ones who secretly set traps, aligning with the new leadership that forced José out.
So, for Vitória, this wasn't just a loss; it was a humiliation.
He needed a face-saving goal.
This was a matter of pride.
On the pitch, McTominay quickly ran to his position.
His heart was filled with anticipation.
This was his Champions League debut.
He and Ling were both academy graduates and had been roommates for three years.
Their bond was special.
Whenever he watched Ling dominate the field from the bench, he felt happy for his friend but also a complex twinge of jealousy.
Yet he knew the immense effort behind Ling's success.
He had cut back on his own leisure activities and focused on training, striving to catch up.
"Scott," Ling called out, "remember you're playing as an attacking midfielder now—make quicker, forward runs into the box!"
Previously, McTominay had been positioned as a defensive midfielder.
But having started as a center-forward in the academy, his tall frame and sharp instincts made him particularly impactful when making late runs.
Mourinho's decision to field him in Mkhitaryan's role was an experiment.
"Got it!" McTominay responded loudly.
After the restart, United's midfield control waned, so they conceded possession while slightly dropping their defensive line—a classic lure tactic.
Benfica players pressed higher.
Fesa slipped a through ball to Pizzi, who linked up with Jiménez.
But Lindelof and Smalling were prepared, sandwiching the striker between them to cleanly win the ball.
United then launched a rapid counterattack.
Herrera spotted Ling's diagonal run and delivered a sweeping cross.
Ling controlled the ball in stride and surged toward the byline. Pereira, the former Barcelona fullback, tugged and grabbed desperately.
But his exhausted, 60kg frame was no match for Ling's acceleration.
Under the gaze of tens of thousands, Ling gradually decelerated after entering the penalty area.
He was waiting.
Simultaneously, Lukaku, Matic, and McTominay transformed into the "Manchester Air Force," attacking the near, middle, and far posts—a multi-pronged aerial assault.
Benfica's defense instantly fell into disarray.
Rúben Dias instinctively marked the most threatening presence—Lukaku—leaving the others unmarked.
Just as defenders rushed out to challenge Ling, his right foot suddenly swung.
It was a vicious, whipped cross, resembling both a curling shot and a pass, making his intentions impossible to read.
Smack!
The ball spun like a brilliant rainbow, arcing down toward the far post.
And there, rising high, was Scott McTominay.
He transformed into a B-2 stealth bomber, powerfully heading the ball into the back of the net.
0-3!
The Estádio da Luz erupted for a final time... with the sound of thousands of home fans getting up and leaving.
Hearing the roaring cheers from the away end, McTominay instinctively sprinted toward the corner flag and celebrated with an impassioned, slightly clumsy knee slide.
Then he stood up and tightly embraced Ling, so excited he was almost incoherent.
"Ling! I scored! I scored! I scored in my Champions League debut, just like you!"
Ling's smile was genuine as he shouted back over the noise, "Scott, that's right! You did it! What a header!"
McTominay couldn't calm his excitement.
Having joined United's academy at just 5 years old, he had Red Devils blood in his veins.
His short stature as a child meant he rarely got playing opportunities and even suffered bullying.
Back then, someone had told him: "Talent isn't something that reveals itself easily."
So he persevered.
Ling's sudden rise had validated those words, and now his own years of hard work were finally paying off.
He looked at his good friend, countless memories flashing through his mind.
Back when Ling had fought two older youth players to stand up for him, Ling had been banned from training for a week and got scolded by Sir Alex Ferguson himself.
It was precisely because of this that their bond grew stronger.
McTominay suddenly whispered, "Thank you, man. For everything."
"None of that sentimental stuff with me," Ling scoffed, deliberately putting on a disdainful expression.
"You're buying me a meal when we get back. There's a new Nando's just opened outside the training ground."
McTominay's emotional moment vanished.
"A Nando's? That's it?"
"And... Ling," he asked tentatively, "can you set me up with another pass later?"
"See? Always in a rush," Ling laughed, patting him on the shoulder. "I'll pass to you if there's a chance."
On the sidelines, Mourinho watched with heartfelt satisfaction.
His first impression of McTominay had been that this freckle-faced kid was like a "mad dog"—not as an insult, but because he possessed an indescribable, fearless ferocity.
It was why he'd promoted the average-performing kid in the first place.
Now it seemed his judgment was accurate.
Both his young players were performing excellently.
Meanwhile, Rui Vitória, on the other side, could no longer bear to watch.
He turned away angrily and walked down the tunnel.
This was a complete and utter defeat.
When the match resumed, Benfica's morale was at rock bottom.
Peep-peep-peep!
Soon, the referee blew the final whistle.
Benfica 0-3 Manchester United!
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