The Florida sun was merciful today—or at least, that's what the players told themselves as they stepped onto the training pitch behind the resort hotel. In truth, it was still about thirty-three degrees, with humidity thick enough to chew, but after the week they'd had, it felt like a blessing.
Ethan strolled toward the sidelines in flip-flops, wearing a Manchester United polo and holding a smoothie that boasted six berries, two greens, and what he suspected was a splash of jet fuel.
"Morning, boss!" Frimpong shouted, jogging by.
"Morning! Try not to break anything today," Ethan called back.
Frimpong winked. "No promises!"
On the pitch, the squad was already going through warm-ups. Bruno Fernandes was complaining—an almost hourly ritual by now.
"Why are the cones always pink?" Bruno asked no one in particular. "They mess with my aura."
"They're not pink, they're… sunset coral," Mount offered.
"They're flamingo-colored. Let's be honest," Casemiro said. "And they haunt my dreams."
Ten Hag paced along the touchline in his bucket hat and training gear, clipboard in hand, exuding an aura that was part drill sergeant, part disappointed father.
"Rondo drill!" he barked. "Two-touch only. I see a third touch, you run until you forget your name."
As the balls started moving, Ethan leaned beside Ellie, who was perched on a deck chair with her tablet and an iced coffee that had more milk than caffeine.
"You think we're getting there?" he asked.
She didn't look up. "Define 'there.'"
"Team chemistry. Identity. Maybe less shouting."
Ellie finally looked at him. "You've got Mbappé trying to nutmeg his shadow, Garnacho keeping count of how many people he's humiliated, and Frimpong calling himself 'the chaos conductor.' I'd say we're making progress."
"Does chaos conductor get a bonus clause?"
"Already asked his agent. Apparently, it's trademarked."
Ethan took a long sip from his smoothie. It tasted like betrayal and spinach.
—
Once warm-ups ended, Ten Hag gathered the players into a semicircle. His clipboard now had two different color-coded maps and a scribbled drawing that may have been an angry pineapple.
"Today, we're working on transitions," he said. "Quick switches, tempo, movement. Full-pitch training match."
The players groaned.
"But—" Ten Hag held up a hand. "There's a twist."
Pellistri raised his hand. "Do we get to sit out if we guess the twist?"
"No," Ten Hag said flatly. "No offsides."
Collective groaning.
"No offsides?" Maguire muttered. "That's not training. That's therapy for strikers."
"And a horror film for defenders," Kim added.
"Also," Ten Hag continued, "every turnover triggers a ten-second high press. You walk—you sit. For five minutes. And no, Zaha, walking artistically still counts."
Zaha lowered his hand slowly.
"Let's go!"
—
From the moment the ball was kicked, the session was madness. Glorious, chaotic madness.
With no offsides, Mbappé camped behind the backline like he was on holiday, scoring tap-ins with the smugness of a man playing FIFA on amateur mode. Kim Min-jae shouted so much trying to organize the defense that his voice cracked halfway through the second phase.
Maguire turned in circles, yelling, "WHERE IS HE?" every time Mbappé disappeared behind him.
"Right behind you," came Mbappé's voice, just before he scored again.
"Stop being so French about it!" Onana yelled from the goalmouth after conceding his fourth.
"What does that even mean?" Mbappé asked, laughing.
"I don't know," Onana replied. "But you're doing it!"
Mount, Mainoo, and Bruno began pulling strings in midfield, finding rhythm with quick, tight passes. Garnacho and Pellistri ran like they'd been injected with energy drinks. Even Sancho was smiling.
At one point, Garnacho executed a backheel nutmeg on Maguire, who simply fell to the ground in disbelief.
"You okay?" Rice asked, jogging over.
Maguire rolled onto his back. "Emotionally? No. Physically? Also no."
—
At the water break, players flopped onto the grass like they'd just completed a desert marathon.
"This is illegal," Sancho declared, upside down on the grass.
"We do this voluntarily," Bruno reminded him.
"That makes it worse!"
Mbappé, barely sweating, spun a ball on his finger and asked, "Can we have oranges? Like youth team days?"
"You are a millionaire," Casemiro said. "Go buy a tree."
Ethan stepped onto the pitch. "Anyone want to fake a minor injury and get out of this?"
"Define minor," Højlund said. "Because I think my soul is leaking."
"No sympathy," Ethan replied, sitting on a cooler. "I watched you race a golf cart yesterday."
"It was going over twenty," Mbappé added.
"I didn't lose," Højlund pointed out.
"That's even worse," Ellie muttered from the sideline.
—
The second half of training started with a new rule: one-touch finishes only. The level of difficulty skyrocketed.
Frimpong missed an open goal and fell to his knees like a soap opera character. Pellistri managed to hit the crossbar twice in one move. Zaha scored an outrageous volley and celebrated like he'd just won the Champions League.
"That doesn't count," Ten Hag called out. "Two touches!"
"It was one!" Zaha protested.
"The celebration counts as a second."
Lindelöf, waiting on the sideline, began warming up.
"I've got silky feet," he told anyone listening.
"Save it for dance night," Højlund replied.
—
By the time the full session ended, players were sprawled on yoga mats, breathing like they'd survived an avalanche.
Ethan stood nearby, watching the team with a small smile.
They weren't just training. They were building something.
Ten Hag called them into a final huddle.
"This is what we need. Sweat. Control. Connection. This is how titles are won—before the season even begins."
"Also," he added dryly, "next person to meg Maguire owes him lunch."
"Expensive lunch," Maguire added. "Like sushi."
—
Later that afternoon, the media room was cool and quiet. Ethan and Ellie sat with the session footage on a massive screen, frame-by-frame breakdowns playing in silence.
A clip showed a team goal: six passes, clever movement, and a one-touch finish from Højlund. Even Ten Hag had applauded.
"This is the team," Ethan said quietly. "Right here. That sequence."
Ellie didn't look up. "You're not going to cry, are you?"
"I might. I'm allowed."
She smiled. "Well, enjoy it. Because tomorrow, we start looking at trialists again."
Ethan groaned. "Any luck finding a backup keeper?"
"One passed out during corners. The other thought VAR was a vitamin."
"Promising."
Ellie looked over. "By the way, are we going to tell the players what we're doing about Greenwood?"
Ethan sighed, deep and slow.
"Soon. But not until we've figured it all out. We can't afford division."
"They trust you," Ellie said softly. "For now."
—
That night, the players gathered in the lounge, where someone—no one would admit who—had set up a karaoke machine.
Frimpong claimed innocence. Pellistri immediately broke into a grin.
"Don't look at me," he said, holding a microphone.
First up: Sancho and Mount, screaming their way through "Wonderwall" like it was a last-ditch audition for Britain's Got Talent.
Then Bruno took the mic.
"I will now sing the greatest Portuguese love song ever written."
"Oh god," Malacia whispered.
Halfway through, Casemiro was crying. Højlund was asleep.
Next, Garnacho attempted rap. He was booed off, then redeemed himself with a surprise beatbox duo with Lindelöf that left the room stunned.
Finally, Mbappé stood up.
"Okay," he said, "but only if Højlund sings with me."
Højlund blinked. "You serious?"
Mbappé grinned. "Backstreet Boys."
The room exploded. Phones came out. Groans turned to laughter. And when the music started, the two stars gave it everything—hand choreography and all.
Even Ten Hag, watching from the hallway with a bottle of sparkling water, tapped his foot.
"You're filming this, right?" Ethan asked.
Ellie nodded. "Oh, absolutely. This is going on the preseason documentary and everyone's Christmas card."
—
When the chaos died down and the squad drifted to their rooms, Ethan stayed behind, sitting alone in the quiet lounge.
The karaoke machine buzzed faintly in standby mode.
The Florida night was still warm, still alive.
He looked out the window, his expression unreadable.
The hard decisions hadn't gone away. The season hadn't started yet. The real tests were still to come.
But for tonight, the team was laughing.
They were building something.