The morning after karaoke night began with the unmistakable sound of regret echoing through the hotel corridors.
Ethan stepped into the elevator wearing sunglasses that were definitely too big for his face, sipping an espresso shot like it owed him money. As the doors opened on the fitness floor, he was greeted by a scene that could only be described as… tactical chaos.
Sancho was lying face-down on a yoga mat. Højlund was using a foam roller like it had personally insulted him. And Bruno, somehow, was already in a heated tactical debate—with himself.
"I told myself yesterday not to go full falsetto," Bruno muttered, holding an ice pack to his throat. "And did I listen? No. I did Celine Dion, Ethan. Celine."
"Honestly, you hit the high note," Ethan said. "Unfortunately, it hit back."
Across the gym, Ten Hag paced like a general surveying the battlefield. He wore a fresh tracksuit, a cold bottle of water in hand, and the ruthless smile of a man who didn't sing karaoke because he trains through it.
"Optional regen session," he announced, louder than necessary. "Which means it's mandatory, unless you enjoy your hamstrings being made of twigs."
Mbappé walked in, holding two green juices and wearing socks but no shoes.
"Why is he floating?" Mount asked no one in particular.
"He's just vibing," Garnacho replied, doing pushups while somehow also scrolling TikTok.
Ethan leaned against the wall and whispered to Ellie, who had her laptop out and a look of tired concentration.
"Did we accidentally sign a bunch of cartoon characters?"
Ellie didn't look up. "Not accidentally."
—
Back on the training pitch, the sun had returned to its full Miami arrogance, and the coaching staff had conspired to make it even worse: a circuit-training obstacle course designed to "build endurance and mental resilience," which roughly translated to watch grown men suffer in creative new ways.
"You'll rotate stations every five minutes!" the fitness coach bellowed. "Tyres, hurdles, sprint ladder, resistance bands, and—"
"Death," Rashford mumbled.
"—finishing drill with Bruno," the coach finished.
"Oh," Bruno said brightly. "That's not so bad."
"Except," the coach added, "you're not allowed to use your right foot."
Bruno stared. "You're kidding."
"Nope. Left foot only. Embrace your weaknesses."
Bruno groaned. "This is discrimination."
"Against what?"
"Greatness."
—
Højlund nearly face-planted into a tyre. Casemiro got stuck in a resistance band like a grumpy burrito. Maguire tried to leap over a hurdle and ended up rolling gracefully into a cone.
"Is this the new ballet?" Frimpong asked, filming.
"Shut up," Maguire muttered, still sprawled out. "The cone moved."
Ethan stood with Ten Hag, arms crossed. "So… what exactly are we building today?"
"Character," Ten Hag said. "And calf muscles."
Mount sprinted past them, yelling, "I AM CHARACTER!"
"Some more than others," Ethan noted.
—
After the circuit, it was time for finishing drills.
The setup was simple: a cross from the wing, one-touch finish only, left foot only.
Mbappé scored effortlessly, obviously. Rashford nailed one into the bottom corner. Then came Bruno, with his self-imposed rule of not using his dominant foot.
He sliced the ball into orbit.
Garnacho clapped slowly. "Wow. That one's heading back to Portugal."
"Left foot is just for balance," Bruno growled.
"Then yours needs therapy."
Zaha stepped up and missed twice, then tried a bicycle kick that missed the ball entirely but somehow took out a passing drone.
"Looked cool though," Pellistri said.
"That drone was probably spying for City," Zaha replied.
"Still gonna fine you for it," Ten Hag called out, sipping from his bottle.
—
After training, the squad returned to the hotel pool to recover. Ethan joined them, reluctantly, with his smoothie again. Today's ingredients were allegedly kiwi, protein powder, and vengeance.
Mbappé, floating on a lounger, wore sunglasses and zero stress. Garnacho and Pellistri had commandeered a water volleyball game, and Bruno was trying to explain tactical spacing using pool noodles.
"You see," he said, waving one around, "this represents the pivot role."
"Bruno, it's a foam stick," said Rice.
"Everything is tactical if you believe hard enough."
Malacia cannonballed nearby, soaking the entire tactical noodle talk.
"Hydration," he announced, grinning.
Sancho and Mount tried to start a synchronized swimming routine, which lasted about twelve seconds before they collided mid-backflip and sank like synchronised bricks.
Ellie wandered over to Ethan with a tablet.
"Two sponsor meetings tomorrow. Media day after. And Greenwood's status is trending again."
Ethan rubbed his temples. "We give no updates until we're ready. We'll handle it when we're back in Manchester. Right now, we keep focus here."
"And the karaoke videos?"
"What about them?"
"I may have accidentally sent them to Adidas," Ellie said, not sounding remotely sorry.
Ethan blinked. "You what?"
"They're considering a commercial. Working title: 'Sing for the Shirt.'"
"Okay," Ethan said. "New rule: never let Garnacho near a microphone again."
—
That evening, as the players enjoyed a team dinner—Højlund attempting to grill steak himself, Onana loudly critiquing everyone's seasoning skills, and Ten Hag sitting at the head of the table like a Dutch mafia boss—Ethan stood up and tapped his glass.
"We're near the end of the U.S. tour," he began. "One more friendly before we head back. I just want to say—this has been the best pre-season I've seen at this club in years."
Applause. Whistles. Garnacho launched a bread roll into the air and caught it with his mouth. Sort of.
"We've had hard sessions, stupid jokes, tactical breakthroughs, and yes… tragic karaoke."
Cheers.
"But most of all—we've had growth. Not just as players, but as a squad. A team. You've put egos aside. You've run in the heat. You've sprinted, pressed, adapted. And through all of it, you've reminded me why we believe this club can be great again."
A quiet moment.
Then Mbappé raised his juice. "To the Red Revival."
"To the Red Revival," they echoed.
Even Ten Hag gave a small nod.
And then Frimpong stood up.
"Now," he said, grinning. "Let's never do another plank again."
"Agreed," Casemiro called out.
"Too bad," Ten Hag added. "Tomorrow: core day."
Groans erupted.
Ethan sat down next to Ellie, who was already compiling training stats on her phone.
"Do you ever stop working?" he asked.
"I'm fun at parties. Just ask my spreadsheet."
He chuckled. "You think they're ready?"
"They're not ready," she said. "They're hungry."
He looked back at the squad—now arguing over who had eaten the most carbs—and nodded.
"Good. Because the real season's almost here."
And this time, they weren't just a team.
They were a storm in the making.