Ole didn't stop. He didn't let himself feel.
He stormed down the hallways, his pace unrelenting, his mind burning with fury. He wasn't going to cry, he wasn't going to moan about it—no. He needed to keep moving.
He reached the locker room, pushing the door open without hesitation.
The room fell silent.
Every player inside, some mid-conversation, some in the middle of changing, froze. Their movements halted, their gazes locked onto him. Tension filled the air instantly, thick and suffocating.
Ole didn't say a word.
He just walked past them, his boots echoing on the floor, and entered the coaching room.
With a heavy exhale, he shut the door behind him.
he first went to sit on his desk
Ole sat heavily in his chair, his fingers brushing against the desk—the very same desk where he had spent hours strategizing, planning, dreaming of Manchester United's return to glory. Now, it felt foreign. The chair, the walls, even the air in the room—none of it felt like his anymore.
