The Miami morning was suspiciously perfect. The kind of clear blue sky that made bad news feel out of place. Ethan Cross sipped his third espresso on the hotel rooftop, ignoring the glimmering ocean and focusing instead on the weight in his chest. In two hours, he'd be sitting in a room with a squad full of stars, leaders, and comedians—all of them about to be told something that could fracture everything.
The Greenwood conversation was no longer hypothetical.
Ellie joined him with a tablet in one hand and a smoothie the colour of envy in the other. "Room's set. Press is locked out. Staff are briefed. You still want to go through with this?"
"I feel like I'm about to defuse a bomb using a spoon, but yes."
"Good. The spoon was expensive."
She gave him a half-grin and walked off. Ethan sighed. So far on this tour, they'd faced sweltering heat, Messi's Miami tiki-taka, and Mbappé's unquenchable thirst for camera time. But nothing compared to the quiet powder keg that was today's squad meeting.
Back inside, the room they'd set up looked more like a therapy session than a football briefing. Circular seating. No kits. No balls. Just bottles of water, espresso shots, and an unnerving amount of silence.
The players filed in one by one.
Mbappé, still chewing gum like it owed him money, nodded at Ethan and claimed a seat at the back.
Rice walked in like a field general and clapped Bruno on the back. Garnacho sauntered in with a can of Red Bull, took one look at the vibe, and whispered to Pellistri, "Are we getting sacked?"
Ten Hag arrived last, arms folded, eyes sharp. He gave Ethan the slightest nod. It was all he needed.
Ethan stepped into the middle of the circle. "Thanks for coming. No jokes today."
Mbappé raised a finger. "What if it's a really good one?"
"No jokes from me," Ethan clarified.
That got a few chuckles. It was just enough to crack the tension.
He continued, "Today is not about tactics or positions. It's about the identity of our club. You've all heard the whispers. You've read the headlines. I'm not here to dodge them. I'm here to say the name: Mason Greenwood."
The room went still.
"We haven't made any final decisions yet," Ethan said. "But we're considering his return. Only if he earns it. Only if we do it the right way. And only if this group—the backbone of Manchester United—can handle it together."
A long silence followed. Someone's water bottle crackled. It might've been Maguire's knuckles. Or Garnacho's patience.
Finally, Rice spoke. "What does 'the right way' mean?"
Ethan looked him dead in the eye. "It means internal conversations. Personal accountability. And if this squad isn't behind it, it doesn't happen."
Bruno leaned forward. "This is bigger than football. Fans, families, sponsors… hell, even our own reputations."
Ten Hag chimed in, cool and clipped. "He's still our academy graduate. Still one of us. But we can't ignore the consequences."
Casemiro crossed his legs slowly. "Does he want to come back? Or is this just about damage control?"
"He wants it," Ethan said. "He's spoken to me, to Erik. He's remorseful. But we're not taking his word alone. That's why I want him to speak to you. Today."
Now the murmurs began. Garnacho blinked. "Wait, like today today?"
"Like, 'he's in the hallway right now' today," Ellie confirmed, appearing behind Ethan like a particularly efficient spectre.
There were a few curses. Mostly in Spanish. One might've been in Danish—Højlund's facial expression said enough.
Ethan held up a hand. "This isn't a trial. It's a conversation. You don't have to agree. You just have to listen."
And then the door opened.
Mason Greenwood stepped inside.
He looked older—not in age, but in wear. Like a man who had survived a shipwreck and was still coughing seawater. Hair shorter. Posture straighter. No entourage. No branding. Just a plain black tee and eyes full of uncertainty.
He stood in the center of the circle.
No one spoke.
Greenwood exhaled, visibly steadying himself.
"I know I don't deserve this chance," he said. "Not automatically. Maybe not ever. I've spent a long time hiding from this moment, thinking silence would protect me. It didn't. It made things worse. I'm not here to ask for forgiveness—I haven't earned it. I just want to start trying."
Still silence.
Ethan glanced around. Rashford was watching with narrowed eyes. Bruno's face was unreadable. Mbappé? Arms crossed, chewing slower now.
Greenwood continued. "I've been in therapy. I've had long talks with my family, with the club, with people I hurt. I've had to unlearn a lot of stupid, toxic things. It's not a switch you flip. It's work."
He looked around. "If you let me, I want to do that work here. With you."
Finally, Bruno spoke. "You say you've changed. How do we measure that? What if something happens again?"
"I'll be accountable. Every day. I've agreed to a behavioural clause, counselling, charity work—whatever it takes. If I mess up again, I'm gone. Not just from the club—from football."
Mbappé stood up slowly. Everyone turned.
"I don't care how many goals you can score," he said. "But if you lie to us—if you disrespect this badge again—I'll be the first to drag you out."
There was a beat. And then he added, "Also, I call dibs on free kicks."
A ripple of laughter. Garnacho grinned. Even Casemiro cracked a smile.
Rashford stood up next. "You hurt people, Mason. That's real. But I've known you since Carrington. I've seen you scared. Seen you lost. And if you're serious about this journey—we'll hold you to it."
Greenwood nodded. "Thank you."
One by one, the rest of the squad offered brief nods, reluctant handshakes, cautious goodwill. It wasn't a reunion—it was a reset.
Later, the room cleared. Ethan stayed behind with Ten Hag.
"That could've gone worse," Ethan said.
"Or much better," Ten Hag replied. "But it was real. That's what matters."
Outside, Greenwood sat alone by the pool, legs dangling into the water. Mbappé wandered over, sat beside him, and said nothing. Then:
"You really agree I get free kicks?"
Greenwood managed a laugh. "Not a chance."
Mbappé grinned. "Alright. Now I know you're still a baller."
Back in the team group chat, Bruno posted a photo of Mason with the caption: He's back. But he's on probation. One wrong pass and it's fridge duty for a week.
Luke Shaw replied: Fridge duty? Who do you think he is, Maguire?
Maguire sent a shrug emoji.
Training resumed the next morning. Greenwood joined the sessions under Ten Hag's watchful eye. No media circus. No press release. Just quiet reintegration.
He slipped passes to Mainoo. He worked overlap drills with Malacia. He took shots—some went in. Some went wide. None got any special treatment.
The locker room slowly returned to its normal rhythm.
Frimpong was back to blasting drill music. Casemiro was handing out protein bars like a church usher. Højlund was FaceTiming his dog.
And in the midst of it, Greenwood was just one of the lads again—under scrutiny, but not under exile.
That evening, Ethan met with Ellie on the hotel balcony.
"You think it'll stick?" she asked.
"He knows there's no Plan B," Ethan replied. "That helps."
Ellie sipped her wine. "He's not the same kid we lost."
"No," Ethan said. "And maybe that's a good thing."
Below, Miami flickered to life again. Neon lights. Laughter. Street music. Another city conquered. Another day survived.