"SSI!" "RONALDO!"
The shouts from the red carpet were deafening.
The arrival of the two demigods of football—the n who had turned the Ballon d'Or into a private duel for a decade—ignited the venue.
Flashbulbs strobed like a rave, blinding and chaotic.
Jeremy Ling glanced briefly at the commotion, watching Ronaldo sign a shirt with a practiced flourish.
He felt a pang of ambition, sharp and hungry.
'One day,' he thought. 'Not to watch. To be watched.'
He turned away, following a UEFA staff mber to his assigned seat in the auditorium.
Although football isn't show business, there is a rigid hierarchy rooted in gold and goals. The seating plan was a map of power.
As Ling took his seat in the second row, he spotted a familiar, pale face with strawberry-blonde hair.
"Kevin, hello."
Kevin De Bruyne leaned forward, squinting slightly in the dim, blue-hued light.
"Ling? Is that you?"
"Yes, it's ." Ling nodded politely.
"Good ga the other day," De Bruyne mumbled, referring to the Derby. "You guys were... efficient."
"Thanks."
After that brief, slightly awkward exchange, the two fell silent.
Neither was particularly talkative, and De Bruyne, the "Prince of Assists," preferred to let his feet do the talking.
Soon, another player took a seat nearby—Chelsea's N'Golo Kanté.
The Frenchman offered them a shy, earnest smile that sohow made the room feel warr.
Once everyone was seated, the Champions League Round of 16 draw officially began.
The process remained tedious.
UEFA officials delivered speeches about "integrity" and "passion" that lulled half the audience into a microsleep.
It wasn't until half an hour later that the main event comnced.
The stirring, operatic strains of Zadok the Priest—the Champions League anthem—filled the hall.
Two transparent fiberglass bowls were brought onto the stage.
The man tasked with deciding their fate today was the Spanish maestro, Xabi Alonso.
A legend of Liverpool, Real Madrid, and Bayern Munich, looking effortlessly cool in a suit.
He reached into the bowl, stirred the balls around with a satisfying clatter, and casually picked one out.
He cracked it open.
"Beşiktaş." The Turkish champions. A decent draw.
He opened the second ball. "Bayern Munich."
Jupp Heynckes, the Bayern manager, smiled broadly.
Bayern had finished second in their group but had successfully avoided the sharks of the Premier League and La Liga.
It was a "free pass" to the quarter-finals.
The tension in the room ratcheted up.
The big guns were still in the bowl.
Xabi Alonso dipped his hand in again.
"Real Madrid." A gasp rippled through the room.
The defending champions. The team nobody wanted.
Alonso picked the opponent. "Paris Saint-Germain."
Crash.
The sound of a billion euros colliding.
Xabi Alonso's lips twitched uncontrollably—his hands really were sothing special.
He had just drawn the final before the final.
Everyone's gaze instinctively shifted to Zinedine Zidane and Unai Ery.
Both wore expressions of stunned disbelief.
The Defending Kings vs. The Oil Princes.
Zidane rubbed his gleaming bald head. He had specifically going to church before coming here.
'And this is the result?' Still, he had Cristiano.
The draw continued.
"Chelsea." Antonio Conte leaned forward, beads of sweat forming on his brow.
"Barcelona."
Conte closed his eyes. Ernesto Valverde grimaced.
The two clubs shared a deep-seated, bloody rivalry.
The ghost of 2009—the "Disgrace of Stamford Bridge," Iniesta's goal, the refereeing scandals—hung over this fixture.
Conte recalled his interview from two days ago: "In the Champions League, you have to challenge the strongest teams."
'I really shouldn't speak carelessly from now on,' he thought bitterly.
Finally, the mont Manchester United fans were waiting for.
"Sevilla."
"Manchester United."
Mourinho grinned broadly.
Vincenzo Montella, the Sevilla manager, looked dejected.
It was the best possible outco.
Sevilla were a good technical side, the kings of the Europa League, but they were struggling in La Liga.
Compared to Real Madrid or Juventus, this was a gift.
...
Social dia Reaction:
[GET IN! Sevilla! We move!]
[Mourinho masterclass incoming. We park the bus in Spain and kill them at Old Trafford.]
[Isn't Barcelona UEFA's golden child? How did they get Chelsea while we got Sevilla?]
[Don't underestimate them. Ben Yedder is dangerous.]
[It's the easiest draw possible. The road to Kiev starts now!]
...
Ling and Mourinho walked out of the hall in high spirits, imdiately sward by reporters.
"Sevilla is a strong opponent," Mourinho lied smoothly to the caras, playing the humble diplomat.
"They have European pedigree. We will have to be at our best." Ling nodded beside him. "We respect them. But we want to win."
Not far away, Mauricio Pochettino wore a bitter expression.
Tottenham had drawn Juventus.
Combined with their league fixtures against United, Liverpool, and Arsenal, their schedule was like a death march.
...
December 17th. The Hawthorns, West Bromwich.
As days passed, the festive cheer of the draw faded into the grim reality of the Premier League winter schedule.
Manchester United traveled to face West Bromwich Albion.
Mourinho didn't pay too much tactical attention to this match.
West Brom, under Alan Pardew, were a ss.
They had gone 17 consecutive gas without a win, a club record for futility.
They were destined for relegation.
And just as Mourinho had thought, the gap in quality was imnse.
27th Minute. Ling received the ball on the left.
He didn't even need to use a skill move; he just shifted the ball and whipped a cross into the box.
Rolu Lukaku, playing against his forr loan club, leaped high. He powered a header into the top corner.
He didn't celebrate, muting his joy out of respect, but the United end roared.
0-1!
35th Minute. Paul Pogba drove forward. West Brom backed off, terrified of a foul.
From the edge of the penalty area, Pogba unleashed a thunderous shot. It took a wicked deflection off Ahd Hegazi's leg, wrong-footing Ben Foster.
0-2! Ga over.
Or so it seed.
67th Minute. Manchester United launched a counter-attack.
Ling sprinted down the left channel, chasing a long ball from Matic.
He pushed off his right foot to accelerate past Kieran Gibbs.
Pop.
It wasn't a loud noise. It wasn't a collision. It was a sensation.
A sharp, hot pain shot through his right calf, like soone had shot him with a BB gun.
Ling pulled up imdiately.
He didn't fall, but he stopped running, hopping on his left leg.
His heart sank instantly.
The cold wind of the West Midlands felt suddenly freezing.
'No. Not now.' He quickly assessed the pain. It was sharp, localized.
'Is my season over?'
"TEAM DOCTOR!"
On the sidelines, José Mourinho jumped up imdiately.
The calm veneer vanished.
In his decades of coaching, he had witnessed too many talents ruined by injuries.
Ronaldo Nazario. Arjen Robben.
Injuries were the thief of greatness. This was his most prized disciple.
His "Sweet lon." If anything serious happened...
Ling didn't dare to exert any more force.
He sat down on the grass, signaling to the bench.
The dical team rushed on.
"Where is it, Jeremy?" the physio asked urgently.
"Calf. Right side. Felt like a kick."
"Okay. Don't move it."
Ling hobbled off the field, his arm draped over the physio's shoulder.
He saw Mourinho's face—pale with worried.
Ling let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"It seems to be a gastrocnemius strain," the team doctor told Mourinho, his voice low. "From the sprinting chanism. We need an MRI to be sure of the fiber damage, but... it looks like he'll be out for the festive period."
After completing the examination and inquiries, the team doctor made a preliminary diagnosis.
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