The Florida humidity had entered a new tier of disrespect. It wasn't just hot—it was the kind of heat that made your thoughts sweat. The kind of heat that made Mbappé, upon stepping onto the training pitch, look up at the sun and mutter, "This is why I stayed indoors at PSG."
Yet there they were. All of them. Every Manchester United player, standing in formation like an army of heatstroke-bound warriors, squinting at Ten Hag as he drew shapes in the sand with a stick like a beachside Socrates.
Ethan stood to the side, arms folded, sipping the last bit of his melted protein shake and wondering if there was any real nutritional value in liquified chalk.
"All right," Ten Hag said, tossing the stick aside. "We're three days from facing Real Madrid. Which means today—"
"—we die," Bruno muttered just loud enough for the lads around him to hear. Garnacho snorted, earning him a glare from Ten Hag.
"—we focus on control. Tempo. And discipline. You want to beat Real? You don't do it with highlight reels. You do it by suffocating them."
Sancho raised a hand. "Suffocating with love or…?"
"Shape," Ten Hag snapped. "Midfield shape. Defensive shape. Not hugs, Sancho."
"Shame," Sancho said under his breath. "Was gonna lead a group cuddle."
Despite the joke, everyone knew today wasn't going to be lighthearted. The mood had shifted ever since the youth match. That scare—losing 1–0 to a bunch of kids—had stirred something in the team. Not fear, but focus. A sense of urgency that hadn't been there before.
And it showed.
The warm-up was tight. Snappy passing, crisp movement. No one sauntered. Even Garnacho, who usually danced through drills like a caffeinated cartoon, was all business.
"Let's go! Drive that tempo!" Ten Hag bellowed.
Mainoo zipped a ball to Bruno, who volleyed it perfectly into Mount's path. Mount turned and found Mbappé running behind the line. It was poetry, but aggressive, angry poetry—the kind that got standing ovations and maybe a few red cards.
"Again!" Ten Hag shouted. "Repetition is perfection!"
"Is dehydration part of perfection too?" Højlund gasped as he jogged back into place.
"Yes," Ten Hag said flatly.
Ethan leaned over to Ellie, who had stationed herself near the Gatorade coolers. "If he says 'again' one more time, I think Højlund might defect to Denmark mid-session."
Ellie didn't look up from her tablet. "He's Danish. He'd do it politely."
They both flinched as Casemiro absolutely leveled a cone in frustration after a misplaced pass.
"Okay, maybe not that politely," Ellie added.
By the time the session ended, shirts were drenched, legs were jelly, and Garnacho had invented three new curse words in Spanish.
Ten Hag gathered them in the center.
"I'm proud," he said. "You're not there yet. But this? This is a team that knows where it's going."
He paused. "Also, whoever stole my whistle yesterday—I will find you."
There was a beat of silence before Frimpong said, "Check Mbappé's locker. It whistles when he walks."
Mbappé just raised an eyebrow and walked off. He whistled casually.
Training wrapped, but the day was far from over.
Back at the hotel, the squad gathered for a mandatory film session. Ethan clicked play on the big screen, and the room dimmed.
On the screen: Real Madrid's last pre-season game. Vinícius darting between defenders. Bellingham controlling the tempo. Tchouaméni snapping into tackles like a man trying to shatter time itself.
"Look at their shape," Ethan said. "Every time they press, they leave a trap behind them. If we fall for it, we're giving them counterattacks on a silver plate."
Bruno scratched his chin. "So we bait the trap… and spring it on them?"
"Exactly," Ten Hag said. "Controlled chaos. Think like a chess player."
"Or a raccoon with access to Google," Sancho mumbled.
Maguire leaned forward. "We've played worse. Remember City in the Cup?"
The room groaned. Even Ten Hag visibly winced.
"Yes," Ethan said. "We also had a pigeon stuck in the rafters that day. Everything went wrong."
Garnacho raised his hand. "So… no pigeons this time?"
"Only metaphorical ones," Ethan replied.
By the end of the session, even Mbappé had his game face on. That was when you knew it was serious—when the man who normally looked like football was a hobby started treating it like war.
"Tomorrow," Ten Hag said, "we'll run the Madrid patterns. Simulate their pressing shape. Their overloads. I want our back line reading it before it happens."
"Can we do it in the pool?" Frimpong asked. "We'd still sweat less."
Ten Hag gave him a withering stare.
"Noted," Frimpong said. "Dry training it is."
The meeting ended, but the buzz remained.
Instead of heading to their rooms, most of the players lingered in the lounge. Sancho and Mount were doing what appeared to be tactical charades. Bruno was sketching formations on napkins and arguing with Mainoo about diagonal lanes. Mbappé was balancing two footballs on his knees while casually talking to Ethan about pressing triggers.
Even Onana—usually the joker—was watching Madrid clips on his phone.
Ellie watched it all with a raised brow. "This is either the best team bonding I've ever seen… or a cult forming."
"Same thing, if you're winning," Ethan replied.
Later that evening, the team organized a low-key trivia night. It started innocently enough—Mount asking questions like, "Which United player has the most assists in club history?"—but quickly devolved.
Sancho: "True or false: Frimpong owns a ferret named David?"
Frimpong: "False. His name is Sir David."
Pellistri: "Who sang the worst karaoke last week?"
Everyone, in unison: "Garnacho."
Garnacho held up his hands. "I had laryngitis! And nerves! And tequila!"
Then, someone (likely Bruno) tried to start a United-themed version of Pictionary. This resulted in Højlund attempting to draw "Sir Alex Ferguson," which was mistaken for "a teapot in a rainstorm."
Still, the laughter was real. The bonding was authentic. And somewhere between the charades and the giggling over Rice's impersonation of Ten Hag ("Shape! SHAAAAAPE!"), the group tightened.
Not in a cheesy way. Not in a "they became family" montage way.
But in the way real teams do. Through sweat, shared struggle, and mocking each other mercilessly over bad drawings.
That night, as Ethan sat with Ten Hag under the outdoor terrace lights, sipping lukewarm coffee, he leaned back and said, "You know, they're finally getting there."
Ten Hag didn't reply at first. Just stared out at the dark Florida skyline.
"We're building something," he said finally. "But the foundation… that's the hard part. And it never stops shifting."
"We've got a good group," Ethan said. "And if they believe in each other the way they're starting to…"
"We could win something," Ten Hag finished.
Then, from somewhere inside the lounge, someone shouted, "Frimpong's ferret is loose again!"
Ethan blinked. "Wait. That's real?"
Ten Hag didn't move. "I don't want to know."
They both sat there, listening to the chaos.
Another day done. Another step forward.
And Real Madrid on the horizon.