The next morning, the team gathered for breakfast in the hotel's rooftop buffet, but the usual clatter of spoons and bursts of laughter were missing. Even Garnacho, usually found mixing cereal with Red Bull like a mad scientist, quietly chose Greek yogurt. Rashford scrolled through his phone, shaking his head every now and then, while Casemiro stirred his coffee as if trying to see the future in it.
Ten Hag arrived late, which was already a red flag. The man ran on Swiss watch principles. Ethan trailed behind him, tie crooked, eyes heavy.
Mbappé, who had barely touched his eggs, looked up. "So… do we talk? Or pretend it didn't happen?"
"We talk," Ethan said. "But not here. We're training in thirty. Pack light."
The players exchanged confused glances. "Pack light?" Mount asked. "Are we going hiking? I left my emotional hiking boots in Paris."
On the training ground, it became clear something was different. There were no cones, no bibs, no shouting assistant coach with a whistle addiction. Instead, Ten Hag had arranged a circle of chairs. Again.
The Circle had returned.
"Oh no," Garnacho whispered. "It's The Circle, Part Two: Electric Boogaloo."
This time, there was no dramatic announcement. Ten Hag simply stood and said, "Yesterday was necessary. But it's not over."
Ethan took a step forward. "Today is about the next step. We've had our say. Now we see if we can move forward as one unit. This is your space. We're not coaches or bosses right now. Just listeners."
For a moment, no one said anything. Then Bruno stood up. "Look, I've been at this club a while. I've seen it when it's fractured. When it's United in name only. And I've seen what it looks like when it's real. If we want to win something this season, it starts here. With trust. With honesty. With giving each other the benefit of the doubt."
Frimpong raised a hand. "Do I have to be serious or can I be funny-serious?"
"Just don't be Garnacho," Højlund deadpanned.
"Hey!" Garnacho cried. "I can be very serious. I once didn't laugh for, like, forty seconds."
The mood lightened. Slowly, conversation opened up. They talked about pressure. About public scrutiny. About what it means to play for Manchester United, and who they wanted to be—not just as players, but as people. Even Zaha, new and still testing the waters, shared a moment about how he nearly quit football at Crystal Palace after constant abuse.
"Then I remembered," Zaha said, "if I quit, they win. So now, every time I play, it's personal."
Casemiro nodded solemnly. "Same. Except my reason was I needed to pay for my dog's surgery."
"Wait, really?" Ethan asked.
"No," Casemiro said. "But it was getting too sad in here."
By the time the meeting ended, the air had shifted. No perfect resolution, but something closer to peace. They weren't just teammates again. They were brothers-in-arms, awkward uncles, strange cousins… maybe even a dysfunctional sitcom cast. But a unit.
Later that afternoon, they finally trained. Ten Hag didn't say much. He just stood at the side, watching them laugh again.
Ethan joined him at the touchline. "Think they'll be okay?"
"They're not okay," Ten Hag replied. "But they're getting better. That's enough."
The next match was against Club América in Texas, a late addition to the tour, and a logistical nightmare according to their travel manager, who had been spotted talking to himself in an elevator mirror. The players flew into Austin in a plane filled with the comforting aroma of protein bars, sleep masks, and Declan Rice's anxiety about turbulence.
"Every time we land," Rice muttered, "I rethink my life choices."
Mbappé smirked. "You didn't say that when you signed your salary."
"Money can't cushion a plane crash, Kylian."
Training in Austin was brutal. The heat made Miami feel like Manchester in spring. Malacia took one jog and immediately declared he was melting. Frimpong insisted his boots were shrinking. Garnacho claimed he saw a cactus wave at him.
But the staff had noticed something crucial: the players were talking more. Joking more. Højlund was doing mock interviews in a dramatic Scandinavian accent. "Ja, I believe I can fly. I score goal. I am very humble, like god."
The match itself, held at the enormous Q2 Stadium, was a wild affair. Club América brought passion, flair, and a surprising number of supporters who somehow made Texas sound like Mexico City. The crowd booed everything United did. When Maguire came on, the jeers were loud enough to shake the grass.
But the team was focused.
Ten Hag fielded a balanced side:
GK: Onana
DEF: Dalot, Varane, Maguire, Shaw
MID: Casemiro, Eriksen, Bruno
ATT: Sancho, Højlund, Rashford
Ethan sat high in the stands with Ellie, arms crossed.
"Alright," Ellie muttered, "no drama this time."
"Ellie, this is Manchester United," Ethan replied. "Drama is our brand."
Kickoff.
From the get-go, United dominated possession. Casemiro and Eriksen dictated tempo like two uncles running a barbecue—casual, smooth, and with lethal precision. Sancho, clearly eager to impress, danced past defenders with the grace of someone who'd deleted all the hate comments from his mind.
In the 22nd minute, Bruno slipped a perfect through ball to Rashford, who chipped the keeper with one touch.
1–0 United.
Ethan exhaled.
In the 36th, Club América hit back with a thunderbolt from 30 yards that made Onana glare at the crossbar like it had betrayed him personally.
1–1.
Halftime came with the score level and the temperature still unbearable. United's fitness coach had to hand out five buckets of ice, three chilled towels, and one emergency watermelon.
In the second half, Ten Hag made changes: Mbappé on for Sancho. Mount on for Eriksen. Garnacho on for Rashford.
It worked instantly.
Mbappé ran the show. He toyed with defenders like they owed him money. In the 63rd, he cut inside and rifled one into the top corner. The kind of goal that made even opposition fans mutter, "Fair enough."
2–1.
Five minutes later, Garnacho won a free-kick and instead of letting Bruno take it, cheekily asked, "Can I try?"
Bruno rolled his eyes. "If you miss, you do my laundry."
Garnacho curled it beautifully over the wall.
3–1.
"Guess you're doing your own socks," Garnacho winked as Bruno shoved him playfully.
The final whistle blew with United securing another win. But more than that—it felt like they'd rediscovered their identity. Not just as a team chasing trophies, but as a family that could disagree, fall out, then come together again.
Back in the dressing room, the players sang. Rashford got up and performed a half-decent rap. Mbappé clapped off-beat. Ten Hag even smiled for six full seconds.
Ethan stood at the door watching it all, arms folded.
Ellie walked up beside him. "Progress."
"Feels like it."
"Now we just need to keep this going."
Ethan nodded. "Next stop: New York."
"Big stage."
"Big squad."
"And Greenwood?"
Ethan hesitated. "He'll fly out. Quietly. No press. He joins training in closed sessions. Still no guarantees."
Ellie gave a long look. "You sure?"
"No," Ethan said. "But I'm not pretending anymore."
That night, the hotel bar was buzzing. Bruno, Casemiro, and Rice sat in one corner playing poker with a deck missing the queen of hearts. Frimpong was trying to convince Mbappé that pineapple on pizza was a tactical decision. Garnacho and Højlund were in a heated debate over who had the better goal celebration.
Ethan sat with Ellie by the window.
"You're doing it again," she said.
"What?"
"Looking like the ghost of Ferguson past."
Ethan chuckled. "It's the pressure. Every win feels like a rope loosening. Every controversy is a new knot."
"You think they'll accept him?"
"Some will. Some won't."
"And you?"
Ethan looked out at the lights of Austin. "I'll never know if it's the right decision. But I'll know if I ran from it. And I won't."
Ellie nodded. "Then you're doing your job."
Outside, the Texas sky stretched wide and uncertain. The future wasn't guaranteed. But for the first time since the tour began, Manchester United felt whole again.