After the press conference, Robertson made his way to the visitors’ locker room deep inside Old Trafford.
The atmosphere inside was heavy.
Boots were half-removed. Jerseys lay discarded on the floor. A few players sat slouched on the benches, towels over their heads. Others stared blankly at the floor or leaned back against the lockers, silent. The sting of the final whistle—of conceding so late—still hung in the air like fog.
The pain of coming so close and leaving with nothing.
Robertson paused at the door for a mont, taking it all in. He knew this feeling. He’d seen it before—in dressing rooms that had tasted heartbreak and couldn’t make sense of it.
Then, he stepped toward Steve Walford and Terry Genoe, the two assistant coaches.
"They’re still thinking about the match," Walford muttered, glancing around at the dejected squad.
Robertson nodded, arms crossed. "They need to get over it."
Though he couldn’t be O’Neill, at least this was what he could do for the mont. He clapped his hands and stepped forward.
"I know that loss hurt," he began, raising his voice just enough to carry. "I know it feels like we were this close only to leaving with nothing. But let remind you of sothing."
He scanned their faces, one by one, before continuing.
"You went toe-to-toe with Manchester United. At Old Trafford. Under the lights. And you had them scared—scared. You made them fight to the last second to avoid embarrassnt. That’s not a loss, lads—that’s a statent."
He let that hang for a mont before adding firmly:
"Also, don’t forget—this is only the third fixture. There are still 31 matches ahead of you! Are you seriously going to give up just because you lost once to Manchester United?!"
It was ti to move forward.
"Now," Robertson said, clapping his hands once, "we’re going to take this and carry it forward. Because if you can do that here, then there’s no stadium, no club, and no badge in this league that should intimidate you. You play like that every week, and you won’t be fighting relegation—you’ll be writing headlines."
A few chuckles broke out.
"And by the way..." He grinned. "You nearly ruined Fergie’s week. I’m proud of you."
The room relaxed slightly. Shoulders dropped. Robertson picked up a bottle of water and tossed it toward the nearest player.
"Co on, lads. Shower up. There’s still a long season ahead—and I don’t know about you, but I’m not done making trouble yet."
City’s squad had already set off on their journey back to Manchester, including the coaching staff, players and dical team.
The only one left behind was the owner, who was in a high-level eting with Manchester United’s David Gill.
His office wasn’t large, but it had a distinctly cozy atmosphere. In the center stood a glass coffee table, surrounded on three sides by leather sofas. The walls above the sofas were adorned with photographs and aningful artwork.
One piece in particular caught Richard’s attention — a world-famous photograph titled "Lunch atop a Skyscraper."
Taken on September 20, 1932, during the construction of the RCA Building (now the GE Building) at Rockefeller Center in New York City, the image shows eleven ironworkers casually eating lunch and chatting while seated on a steel beam, their legs dangling 840 feet (260 ters) above the city.
Originally staged as part of a publicity campaign, the photo beca an enduring symbol of Arican resilience, working-class grit, and the soaring ambition of the early 20th-century skyscraper era.
But the real question was: why did sothing like this hang in David Gill’s office?
"It’s just like football, isn’t it? Eleven ironworkers... eleven players on the pitch," David Gill said, appearing beside Richard with a small smile.
Indeed, the photograph captured sothing deeper — a silent symtry between the workers perched on that steel beam and the players on a football field. Both professions demanded courage, precision, teamwork, and trust. In either case, success ca only when every individual perford their role while relying on those beside them. With that, you could build sothing monuntal — whether a skyscraper like the Rockefeller Center or a footballing dynasty. It was, in many ways, the spirit of Manchester United.
"I made a bet with Fergie," Gill added with a chuckle. "If he can win the Premier League this season, this photograph will be his."
Richard turned to find Gill standing beside him, swirling a glass of red wine with the ease of a man thoroughly enjoying victory. He nodded toward the untouched glass he’d poured for Richard, still resting on the table.
"What’s wrong? Not a wine man?" Gill asked, taking a smug little sip.
Richard shook his head. "To be honest, my father was more of a street brawler than a somlier. We didn’t exactly grow up swirling Pinot Noir under the chandelier."
He then shrugged. "I’m more of an orange juice kind of guy. If City had won today, I’d have dragged you out for a steak and a pitcher of OJ — unlimited refills, no corkage fee."
Gill nearly choked on his wine before bursting out laughing at the remark. He raised his glass and said, "This is Port wine from Portugal. It carries a sense of occasion here in the UK. I didn’t know your preferences, so I thought this red wine—enjoyed by students, soldiers, and nobility alike—would suit you. Seems I was wrong, and I apologize for that."
Richard waved his hand dismissively. "I’m just a regular guy enjoying the scene, not soone who pretends to know what year the grapes were picked or how much oak went into the barrel."
Gill nodded in agreent. "Indeed. Good wine relies not only on production techniques but also on luck. If the weather’s right, the grapes thrive. But if luck isn’t on your side, even the finest grapes won’t produce great wine. It’s a lot like football—classic matches are often born out of chance, not carefully scripted scenarios."
Richard instantly grew serious. Since football had now been brought up, it ant the real discussion was about to begin.
Even though he knew it was shaless to ask, Gill couldn’t help himself. Curiosity got the better of him.
"Richard," he said, swirling the wine in his glass, "mind if I ask you sothing?"
Richard said nothing—just raised an eyebrow.
Gill cleared his throat and pressed on. "You know, while every ga isn’t just about repeating training drills, executing fluid football in such an unpredictable match environnt is still closely tied to the coach’s influence. To be honest with you, many City players caught the eyes of Manchester United scouts last season. So I have to ask—how did you identify these players? Where do you gather your information? What’s your secret? Is it in the training or sothing else?"
Rivaldo, Sol Campbell, Keith Gillespie, Ole Gunnar Solskjær, Keith Curle, Javier Zanetti, Roberto Carlos, Cafu, Richard Wright.
In fact, based on reports from the last two seasons, City had already generated around £30 million from transfers alone — quite an impressive figure. No wonder he looked on with envy.
Hearing this, the corner of Richard’s mouth twitched.
How shaless could he be—asking a direct rival such a question!
In fact, if Manchester United wanted to put so of their current players on the transfer market, they could likely surpass the total City had amassed. With the talent and reputation already within United’s squad — not to ntion the club’s global brand appeal — even a few key sales could easily exceed the £30 million City had earned over the past two seasons.
"It’s really all thanks to my ti playing for Sheffield Wednesday ," he said with a modest smile. "That experience gave the chance to observe more closely, to see the ga from different perspectives. It’s all just observation, patience, and a bit of instinct. I simply try to rember what I’ve seen and apply it when the mont cos."
Hearing the answer, Gill felt embarrassed—he knew full well that Richard was deliberately avoiding the question, and the situation quickly beca awkward for both of them.
Thankfully, the tension in the room was quickly broken when a knock ca at the office door—though it opened even before Gill had a chance to say anything.
And really, who else had the privilege of opening the door to a Manchester United executive office without waiting for permission?
Who else, if not the chairman himself—Martin Edwards.
Richard was montarily taken aback as Edwards entered unannounced.
"Richard, let introduce you properly—this is Martin Edwards, the chairman of Manchester United."
Of course he knew him — who didn’t know Manchester United’s unloved emperor? The man who transford the club from a team in the doldrums into a corporate juggernaut.
Richard was instantly alert, his mind shifting gears rapidly into business mode.
’This is going to be a tough negotiation,’ he thought. What is it? A buy-in attempt, or perhaps a board-level power move?
However, unexpectedly, Edwards simply shook Richard’s hand and introduced himself before bidding farewell. He explained that he had another eting to attend and apologized for not being able to properly host him. Though confused, Richard just smiled and replied, "No worries at all."
After Edwards left, Richard—still puzzled—turned toward David Gill, who looked hesitant, as if wrestling with sothing on his mind. He swirled the wine in his glass, lips slightly pursed, before finally letting out a long sigh.
"Richard, to be honest... I have a favor to ask."
Richard arched an eyebrow. "...Alright."
"I’m not quite sure how to say this, but... last year, a girl group under your Maddox Entertainnt label ca to watch one of our matches. At the ti, their manager happened to know Edwards personally. So..."
He paused to take a quick sip of his wine—almost like liquid courage—then continued, "He brought two of the girls with him and escorted them into the players’ lounge. And, well... one of our players beca quite taken with one of the girls."
Richard blinked. "Wait, wait—did you say girl group? Which one are you talking about?"
"Do you have another girl group under your company?"
"...You an the Spice Girls?"
"Yes, yes—that’s them," Gill nodded. "They were still going by Touch back then, I think, before the rebrand. Now it’s all ’Girl Power’ and chart-toppers. Edwards didn’t know who they were at the ti, but now... well, you know how it is. One of our lads can’t stop going on about one of them."
"..."
Richard was at a loss for words.
Spice Girls and Manchester United players—who else could it be if not David Beckham?
Was Martin Edwards really this idle—so much so that he was now trying to play matchmaker?
Gill let out an awkward chuckle. "Let’s just say I’m trying to avoid another tabloid disaster. But yes—sothing along those lines. Fergie ca to and Edwards not long ago and brought it up. He said that last season, Beckham trained noticeably harder when he was seeing that girl—so, yeah... if it helps the boy stay focused and fly down the wing again... well, we’re hardly in a position to complain, are we?"
"But what exactly is it that you want to do?"
Yeah... that’s the problem, isn’t it?
"Just help clear a bit of their schedule for a performance. Their calendar’s honestly packed to the brim. It’s not a major priority, to be fair—more of a favor, really. But if we can make it happen, it might keep a few people happy."
Of course, Richard could have refused—but if he did, wouldn’t that make him look petty?
He rubbed his temples and gave a small nod, then handed David Gill the contact details for Harry, his brother who was in charge of Maddox Entertainnt.
As Beckham and Victoria inevitably ended up a couple, there really was no good reason for Richard to refuse. It was practically fate — pop royalty ets football’s golden boy.
No wonder Martin Edwards had made his swift escape the mont they crossed paths. Even Ferguson probably felt too embarrassed to ask for sothing like this himself.
Richard glanced at David Gill and couldn’t help but marvel at the man’s audacity. The sheer thickness of his face could probably deflect a Roy Keane tackle.
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