O'Neill had just settled into his office after the morning session when there was a quiet knock at the door.
It was Solskjær.
He stepped in, closing the door gently behind him. They didn't speak at first—just sat there, side by side in the small sitting area, the silence stretching between them.
Finally, O'Neill exhaled and looked over.
"Ole," he said softly. "You want to go to Manchester United, don't you?"
Solskjær lowered his gaze. "It's not that simple, Boss," he said quietly. "It's not about United. It's about... here. I've been coming off the bench for a year. I know what I can do—whether it's on the wing or up front. But it feels like you don't see me as a starter."
O'Neill didn't respond right away. He just stared into his cup, the steam curling up and fading.
He got it.
Solskjær wasn't asking for praise. He was asking for belief—for trust. And the truth was, he had every right to.
Twenty-three years old, in top form.
