The Florida sky looked deceptively peaceful that morning—blue, wide, and innocent. But inside the resort's private meeting room, it was all tension and caffeine.
Ethan stood at the front of the room beside a whiteboard already overcrowded with arrows, boxes, and what looked suspiciously like a stick-figure version of Bruno Fernandes yelling at someone. Ten Hag sat at the table, arms crossed, sipping black coffee that might've been stronger than some wars. The players, dressed in training kits, filed in slowly—most of them holding protein shakes, some of them holding hope.
"Well," Ethan began, "today is not about laps, sprints, or getting roasted alive in the Florida sun."
Frimpong raised his hand immediately. "So… it's a beach day?"
"Not unless your idea of a beach day includes tactical breakdowns," Ethan said. "Today is about brains. Positioning. Mental sharpness. You can out-run a team, sure. But the best teams out-think them."
Bruno, sitting near the front with a notebook open, nodded seriously. Garnacho, next to him, was drawing what appeared to be a pirate ship. Mbappé leaned back, arms folded like he already knew all this and was just attending out of politeness.
Ten Hag stood.
"Let's begin," he said, grabbing a marker with the confidence of a man who could diagram his way out of a hostage situation. "When we attack, what's our first principle?"
Rice spoke up. "Width and overloads."
"Correct. But not just width—intelligent width. Not the 'run to the corner flag and cross blindly' width."
Frimpong blinked. "Are you… looking at me?"
"If the boot fits," Ten Hag replied.
"I wear Mercurials."
"Then sprint more intelligently in Mercurials," Ten Hag deadpanned.
Laughter rippled through the room, but the seriousness settled quickly. On the screen behind him, footage rolled from their last training match—Mbappé peeling wide, Mount shifting into space, Garnacho darting in diagonally.
"Movement," Ten Hag said, "is the mother of space. Space is the father of goals. If you move without thinking, you're a headless chicken. If you don't move at all, you're Maguire in 2022."
Maguire looked up. "I was right here."
"Exactly."
More laughter—though this time, even Maguire chuckled.
Ten Hag pointed to another clip. "This—here—this is good. Look at how Mainoo rotates when Bruno drops. They create a triangle. We want more of this. Always triangles. Think geometry. Think Guardiola's nightmares."
Rice, ever the student, raised a hand. "So we're talking fluid, right? Like, the midfield comes in, the wings stretch wide, and everyone just moves… together?"
"Yes," Ten Hag said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Exactly like that. It's fluidity in movement. You'll see it most in Barcelona's system—or, historically, in the best versions of United. It's not just about technical ability; it's about understanding when to shift. We want players to know when to rotate and when to attack."
Ellie, who had been observing from the back of the room, couldn't resist adding, "And no one here is allowed to look lost. I've seen you all do that when you're too busy trying to style your hair, Bruno."
Bruno, without looking up, grinned. "At least I don't look like I'm still figuring out where the ball goes after I pass it."
This caused a ripple of laughter in the room, but Ethan, always quick to steer things back, tapped the whiteboard. "Alright, back to business. Let's move to our defensive structure."
Ten Hag clicked a button on his remote, and the video shifted to a sequence where United's defense looked less like a well-oiled machine and more like a group of people who hadn't received the memo on who to mark.
"That," Ten Hag said, his voice cool, "is what we call a cluster. Defensive balance is crucial, especially against teams that break quickly. Rice, Mainoo—when you drop, do so together. You're not just covering the space in front of you, but controlling the central lanes. There's no room for passengers."
Rice nodded, scribbling notes furiously in his notepad. "Understood. We can't leave the middle open."
"Exactly," Ten Hag said, leaning in as if trying to instill a new sense of urgency in them all. "We take pride in defending as a unit. That means closing down the central lanes quickly, moving up together, and cutting off any attempts to overload. It's not about being faster; it's about being smarter."
There was a sudden knock on the door.
"Come in," Ten Hag called, his eyes never leaving the screen.
The door opened, and a club official popped his head in, holding a clipboard. "Gents, your breakfast is waiting outside. Also, I've got news—training is moving to the beach this afternoon."
This caused a collective groan.
"Great," Garnacho said, looking around at the team. "Beach day, then. It's like Christmas, but with more sand and fewer presents."
Ellie smirked at Ethan. "Are you sure we don't want to make that a mandatory tactical seminar at the poolside bar instead?"
After the meeting, the players broke off into small tactical huddles. Mbappé was quizzing Garnacho on blindside runs using a sugar packet and a salt shaker. Casemiro and Rice were miming zonal coverage with chairs, while the younger players observed in silence. They didn't seem to mind—it was all part of the process.
Malacia and Mount had taken two cones and somehow turned them into a makeshift VAR screen to reenact one of Malacia's questionable tackles. "You can't be serious," said Rice, looking over at them.
"Serious as a red card in the 90th minute," Mount replied, doing his best impression of a referee.
"That's just how it is," Malacia said, still reviewing his own 'tackle' from every angle.
Meanwhile, Ethan sat with Ellie and Ten Hag reviewing drone footage of the team's shape.
"You know," Ellie said, "if you slow this down and add dramatic music, it kind of looks like a ballet."
"A very aggressive ballet," Ethan replied. "Like one where everyone's angry and French."
"Or Brazilian."
"Or just Bruno."
Ten Hag didn't laugh, but his eye twitched in amusement.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we introduce the real stress test."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "More than two-a-days?"
"No," Ten Hag said. "We play the youth."
The next morning, the sun was back in its murderous mood.
Two squads warmed up on opposite sides of the pitch. On one: the full senior team, dripping in world-class swagger. On the other: United's U21s, flown in for the day and buzzing with underdog energy, most of them with names that sounded like they were generated by Football Manager.
"Are we seriously playing the kids?" Bruno asked, incredulous.
"Yep," Ethan said. "And they're not here for autographs."
"You're saying if I lose, it's… a thing?"
"Oh, it's a headline."
Mainoo turned to a young midfielder who looked barely out of secondary school. "Don't go easy on us."
The kid smiled. "I was about to say the same to you."
Kickoff.
Within five minutes, it was clear: these kids didn't come to play tourist. They pressed like caffeinated wolves. Their winger nutmegged Malacia, prompting a full-on scream of "VIOLATION!" from Frimpong. A teenage striker with ice in his veins shoulder-checked Maguire and kept going. Even Onana had to pull off a flying save after a well-placed volley.
On the sideline, Ten Hag and Ethan watched in quiet delight.
"I kind of love this," Ethan admitted.
"They're hungry," Ten Hag said. "And the seniors? They need a little humility seasoning."
By the 23rd minute, it was 1–0 to the U21s.
"Okay," Bruno said, hands on hips, "no more Mister Nice Guy."
"Were you ever Nice Guy?" Rice asked.
The second half was a masterclass in attitude shift.
Mbappé suddenly looked like he was in a World Cup final. Garnacho tracked back like a man possessed. Casemiro went full instructor mode, barking orders and dragging Mainoo into better positions like a mentor in cleats.
Then it clicked.
Bruno to Mount. Mount to Mbappé. A one-two with Frimpong. Boom.
1–1.
Then another. Garnacho, channeling pure chaos, dribbled past two kids who'll now tell this story forever.
2–1.
The senior squad edged it. But just barely.
And when the final whistle went, everyone clapped—because they all knew this was the kind of match that sharpened blades.
Back at the hotel, players lounged by the pool, sharing stories, still poking fun.
"You see that U21 kid shoulder Maguire?" Mount said.
"He should be on our weights program," Bruno added. "He's clearly benching defenders."
Maguire held up his drink. "I taught him that. It's called survival technique."
Even Ten Hag allowed the players an early dinner and a night without meetings.
"Enjoy it," he said. "You earned this one. Tomorrow, it's back to hell."
Ethan joined Ellie by the bar, where she was half-watching a rerun of the team's karaoke night.
"You think this group's really ready?" she asked.
Ethan looked around: Garnacho and Højlund were arguing over a table tennis match. Mbappé was practicing headers into a pool noodle. Maguire and Sancho were having a bizarre contest to see who could keep a cherry tomato balanced on their nose the longest.
"Yeah," Ethan said. "In their own, very weird way… they are."
Ellie smirked. "We'll see. Pre-season's one thing. Reality is another."
Ethan raised his glass. "Then let's make sure they're ready for reality."
That night, just before bed, a new message popped up in Ethan's inbox.
Subject: Final U.S. Match Confirmed.
Opponent: Real Madrid.
Date: Three days.
Ethan stared at it for a while, then smiled.
Reality was coming.
Time to meet it head-on.