"Hurry, hurry, the game will soon start!"
Beneath the roaring crowd and bright lights of Old Trafford, tucked away in a narrow, dimly lit corridor just behind the players' tunnel, was a small utility room—rarely used, half-forgotten, its door creaking on its hinges. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting flickering shadows across the walls lined with cleaning supplies, spare training bibs, and unused gear. This was the spot. The secret meeting place. And in the center of it all knelt Mohamed, his hands pressed against David's left calf, his brows furrowed with concern.
"David, this is reckless," Mohamed said, his voice rushed, tight. "Wouldn't it be better to just tell the coach your leg is hurting? Say you can't play?"
