Chapter 230: Ghosts in Red

Dressing Room – Post-Match

The door slammed so hard the wall shuddered.

No one moved.

The bang echoed like a gunshot, then died into silence — the kind that wrapped around your throat.

Only the low hum of the vents remained. And beyond the walls, faint but cutting, came the Leicester fans.

🎵 "You're getting sacked in the morning!" 🎵

🎵 "Tristan's on fire!" 🎵

The voices slipped through the concrete like smoke.

The door shut behind Rooney like a verdict.

No one looked up.

The room was heavy with the kind of silence you couldn’t speak into. Not even if you wanted to. The air felt thick — like the walls themselves were embarrassed.

Rooney took two steps forward, slow and deliberate, as if noise might break whatever fragile spell was holding the dressing room together.

De Gea sat hunched over, elbows on knees, still wearing his gloves. Still in full kit. Still staring at the floor like it had betrayed him. He hadn’t moved since full-time. He looked like he was trying to rewind the entire game with sheer concentration. Trying to make the Panenka go away.

Fellaini was slumped against the lockers, eyes closed, sweat soaking through his shirt like water through paper. His boot was still on. One shinpad lay beside him on the tiles like it had given up.

Smalling crouched in the far corner, shirt off, hands laced behind his head. His whole body sagged like the game had physically caved his spine in. Every time Rooney looked at him, he looked smaller.

Martial had his shirt pulled over his face, arms braced on his knees. Only his eyes showed. Wide. Distant. Haunted. He wasn’t blinking much. Just sitting there, still trapped inside that moment — the celebration. His celebration. Used against him. In front of the South Stand. In front of the whole damn world.

Schneiderlin stood with his back to the room, hands pressed against the tile wall like he was bracing for an earthquake. His head hung between his arms. Praying? Apologizing? Rooney didn’t ask. He didn’t have the energy.

Lingard sat hunched on the floor, untying his boots one slow loop at a time. He kept forgetting which lace he’d already done. He’d get halfway through, then stop. Look down. Start again.

The air was so still it felt like time had stopped moving.

Rooney glanced around, counting bodies. Counting heads. Something itched in the back of his mind.

Then it hit.

Where the hell is Van Gaal?

The thought wasn’t angry — not yet. Just cold. It felt like waking up and realizing the driver’s left the wheel. This wasn’t a dressing room. It was a wreckage site. And the man steering the ship had disappeared.

Walked off the pitch like it wasn’t his problem.

Rooney looked down at his own hands. Still shaking a little. He hadn’t even taken his boots off. His kit clung to him like punishment. 

Rooney closed his eyes for half a second.

He glanced around the room again — at the quiet, the devastation, the silence. Someone needed to say something.

And as always, it was going to be him. 

Rooney took one step forward, then another. The rubber soles of his boots screeched against the tile.

No one dared meet his eyes.

Then—

"YOU THINK THIS IS NORMAL?!"

The walls seemed to lurch.

Schneiderlin jumped like he'd been tasered. Lingard froze, mid-lace, fingers twitching. Smalling raised his head like he’d heard his name in a nightmare. Martial's shoulders jolted, and he yanked his shirt down like it might shield him.

Rooney marched forward like he was ready to throw hands with gravity itself.

"We just got EMBARRASSED. Again. 4–2. By LEICESTER. Leicester City! Bloody hell!"

He spun, eyes blazing.

"A club that didn’t even EXIST to us five years ago! And now they’ve HUMILIATED us. Three times. On live TV. And you—"

He pointed a shaking finger. First target.

"You."

 Fellaini.

"You came on to do a job. Was the job 'stand still and take up air'? You clattered Mahrez twice, then let him drag you around like a dog on a string. You looked like a fucking training cone."**

Fellaini didn’t move. He didn’t blink. Just let it hit.

Rooney turned.

"Chris."

Smalling looked up. His shirt was soaked. His hands still locked behind his head like he’d been arrested by the result.

"That second goal. You let Tristan walk through you. Didn’t foul. Didn’t press. Didn’t even breathe. You froze like someone hit pause on your controller. He dropped a shoulder and turned you into Ikea furniture."

Smalling’s mouth opened — just a twitch.

Rooney cut him off.

"No. Don’t. Just don’t."

He turned again. Slower this time. Because this one — this one stung more.

"Anthony."

Martial blinked. Too many times. His eyes were red. 

"You score early. Nice finish. Great. But what the hell was that celebration?"

He jabbed a finger at the floor.

"You know exactly what you were mocking. You hit HIS celebration. In HIS stadium. And vanished for the rest of the match."

A pause. Just enough to sting.

"You didn’t track him. You didn’t foul him. You didn’t even breathe in his direction."

Martial’s voice cracked. “I thought we had them—”

Rooney barked a laugh.

"You thought?! What the hell were you thinking with that celly then? That we were gonna cruise 1–0? You poked the bear, Anthony. You fed him raw meat."

Martial didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The words sank straight into his spine.

Rooney looked at all of them now. His voice grew raw — less fire now, more ashes.

"We used to scare teams. Remember that? United meant something. The badge MEANT something. Teams walked into Old Trafford already down two goals."

His voice dropped — gutted, hollow.

"Now? Now we’re a fucking sideshow."**

He gestured wide.

"We’re jokes. We’re a blooper reel. And he—"

Another jab to the floor. As if Tristan’s ghost was dancing in the middle of the room.

"—he just turned us into content. Again."

🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE!” 🎵

The chant leaked through the walls. It felt personal now.

Rooney turned to De Gea, breathing hard.

"You."

De Gea looked up. Tired. Like he'd been aged by the game.

"You actually showed up. You saved us from a bloodbath. That volley from Vardy? The one-on-one with Tristan? Unreal. You deserve better."

De Gea gave a tired nod. One small mercy.

Rooney turned back to the room. His voice lifted again.

"Do any of you lot even care?! Or do you just want likes on Instagram and brand deals? Because right now Leicester are winning trophies AND all we’ve got is excuses."

Schneiderlin turned from the wall, voice low. “What do you want us to say?”

Rooney snapped, “NOTHING! I don’t want words. I want fight. I want blood. I want ONE of you to act like this club still means something!”

Lingard finally mumbled, “We were trying. But he’s just… he’s too quick. You miss the tackle and he’s gone.”

Rooney stepped right into his face. “Then don’t MISS. Pull his shirt. Take a yellow. Show him he’s in a game. He’s TWENTY. Not a god.”

Silence again.

And then — quieter now, softer, more broken than furious:

"I'm twenty-nine."

The words hung.

"I’ve got one last mission: to make this club matter again. That’s it. Not money. Not ego. Just legacy."

He looked at them all, like a disappointed father.

"I can’t do that with passengers."

Another beat.

"So if you can't fight for this… if you're scared to tackle… or scared of looking stupid on Twitter..."

His eyes hardened again.

"Then get. Out. Of. My. Way."

He dropped onto the bench like his bones had finally caught up with the weight of it all.

His voice gone.

His anger used.

All that remained was the sound of the away fans.

And not a single player in that room had any answer for him.

The door opened again.

Not with a slam — not this time. Just a low creak, like the hinges themselves were reluctant to interrupt.

Soft footsteps followed. 

Louis van Gaal entered the dressing room with the stiffness of someone who no longer believed in ceremony. His coat hung open. One hand clutched a folder he never once looked at. His expression was carved from stone, but not the kind meant for battle — the kind meant for graves.

Behind him came Ryan Giggs, clipboard in hand but arms slack, his face pale and hollow. Marcel Bout followed last, quietly pulling the door shut behind him. The latch clicked like a coffin seal.

No one looked up.

Fellaini still hadn't moved. His back was pressed to the locker, gaze blank, one boot halfway unlaced but untouched. Lingard sat hunched over, fingers gripped around his shin as though he might snap the bone himself. Schneiderlin’s arms dangled at his sides. He didn’t even blink. Just stared at the tiled floor like he was waiting for it to swallow him.

Blind had taken to rubbing a spot on his knee, not because it hurt — but because it gave him something to do with his hands. Smalling rocked gently on the edge of the bench, eyes red, not from crying, but from trying not to.

And Martial…

Martial hadn’t moved since Rooney’s tirade. He sat with his forearms on his thighs, his head lowered, shirt pooled in his lap. Not hiding. Just heavy. The weight of it all — the goal, the celebration, the aftermath — had settled onto his shoulders like wet concrete. He could already see United fans ripping into him for what he did.

Van Gaal stopped halfway into the room.

He didn’t speak. Not right away.

He looked around slowly, taking in each face. But it wasn’t the stern, commanding gaze of a general surveying a broken battalion. There was something more hollow in it. Like a man trying to recognize a version of himself that might no longer exist.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Then finally, with the kind of weariness that could only be earned from decades of carrying too much:

“I will not yell.”

It landed strangely in the air. Not soft. Just… surrendered.

Even Giggs seemed caught off-guard.

Van Gaal’s arms folded behind his back. He looked like he needed to lean on something but refused to.

“I’ve yelled enough in my life. Enough for one career. But tonight…”

He paused, turning his head toward the lockers.

“…there’s nothing I could say that would reach you more than what you already feel.”

Still no response.

The silence had grown claws.

No one answered. Some weren’t sure if they were allowed to breathe.

He took a single step forward.

“I have been beaten before. I’ve seen better sides lose to lesser ones. But this — this was not defeat.”

He raised his voice a fraction. Not to shout — but to cut.

“This was surrender.”

It landed in the stomachs of every man in red.

Giggs stepped forward. Tentative.

“We’ve done this to other teams,” he said, eyes roaming. “We’ve been on the other end of it — handing out these scorelines like favours. So maybe we forgot. Forgot what it feels like.”

He looked directly at Martial.

“But tonight… we got reminded. That when you give a player like him a reason — just one — he doesn’t let it go. He builds a cathedral out of it.”

His gaze swept wider.

“You gave him a celebration. He gave you a proper response.”

Van Gaal let out a slow breath. His next words came quiet. Final.

“I will finish this season.”

That turned heads.

“I will not quit. I will not disappear. I was brought here to steady a ship. And I will do it. Even if the sails are torn and the crew has forgotten how to row.”

He looked around.

“But when it ends… I will be gone. Football has moved. And I do not want to chase it anymore.”

He turned toward the door. One hand on the frame.

“You are professionals. Start behaving like it.”

And then he left.

Bout followed without a word. Giggs lingered a second longer. His eyes locked with Rooney’s — a flicker of shared understanding, grief without language — and then he too disappeared through the door.

Click.

Silence again.

Martial stood.

He moved like a man shedding invisible chains. He didn’t look at anyone. He just picked up the shirt from his lap, folded it — slowly, deliberately — and set it back in his locker.

And for the first time that night, there was no anger in his eyes.

Just shame.

And the quiet, slow burn of someone who finally understood what he’d started.

.

The boos started before they even left the tunnel.

Low at first — like a sick breeze blowing in from some distant wound. Then louder. Sharper. A storm of knives, crashing down in cold, brutal rhythm.

“YOU’RE NOT UNITED!”

 “WHERE’S THE FUCKING PRIDE?!”

 “I WANT MY MONEY BACK, ROONEY!”

Rooney heard every word. Not just the volume, but the ache behind it. This wasn’t outrage. This was betrayal. From fans who still remembered when Manchester United meant fear — not futility.

They’d emptied the away end quick. Most had seen enough by the 80th minute. But not all. A ragged pocket had stayed — just to spit the pain back.

Some held scarves aloft, not in support, but surrender. Others waved hand-painted signs:

“Sell the lot.”

The tunnel lights flickered above them, buzzing the way old bulbs do when they’re on their last breath. The walls were soaked in condensation — or maybe that was just the steam of shame boiling off them.

Rooney stepped out first. His boots slapped against the concrete with the finality of a verdict.
Behind him, the players filed out in a broken chain. Not a word. Not a glance. Just ghosts in red shirts clinging to their sweat-soaked skin.

Martial’s head was down, hoodie already up, eyes locked to the floor like maybe the earth would crack open and swallow him whole.

Fellaini trudged like someone carrying extra weight — not in his legs, but in his chest. The echoes of boos seemed to follow his afro like a shadow.

Lingard didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink. Just walked, shoulders tight, every step like a question he didn’t want the answer to.

A camera flash caught them from behind a railing. Then another. Reporters had gathered beyond the barriers, feeding on the carcass. Microphones hung in the air like vultures.

“Wayne, what happened?”

“Is Van Gaal finished?”

“Did Martial apologise to the team?”

No answers came. Just the hum of disappointment, and the heavy thud of boots against asphalt.

Security lined both sides. 

The team bus waited like a hearse. Engine running. Door open.

Rooney reached it first. He stopped at the base of the steps and turned back.

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

"On the bus."

It wasn’t a command. It was a mercy killing.

One by one, they climbed aboard. No one jostled for seats. No headphones. No banter. They moved like prisoners returning from a failed escape — heads low, wounds unspoken.

Martial lingered at the foot of the steps for a second longer than the others. Just long enough to glance back toward the stadium. Toward the South Stand. Toward the memory of what he did — and what Tristan Hale did back.

Then he boarded.

And the door shut with a hiss that sounded far too much like a sigh.

.

Short 3k chapter, I know but I’m a bit tired and this was more a bonus chapter than anything as I don’t post chapters on Saturday. 

Anyway, the timeskip coming tomorrow some folks just wanted me to write the United players so here it is. 

I still hope you guys enjoyed this chapter.