Wolfe's face turned an unnatural shade of iron and blue. His stomach twisted with unease as laughter echoed in the studio. His smug confidence had evaporated the moment Kate Abdo announced that Tiger King was calling in live.
Damn it! Wolfe cursed internally. He had underestimated her.
She looked sweet—charming, even, with her wavy chestnut hair, warm brown eyes, and that signature, sultry smirk. But beneath that alluring exterior was a razor-sharp tongue, and she had just cut him down effortlessly.
From the side of the studio, The Sun's editor, Bright, was practically bouncing in his seat, eyes alight with excitement. He cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered:
"Wolfe! Bet on it! Put your money where your mouth is!"
Wolfe shot him a sharp glare. "Are you kidding me?! Why am I getting dragged into this?!"
He clenched his jaw, his back molars grinding together as he weighed his options. If he backed out now, he'd be branded a coward—live on television. If he agreed, he'd be tied to this outrageous bet with no way out.
No choice.
Finally, under the mounting pressure of the studio audience, his editor, and Kate's relentless smile, Wolfe forced a stiff nod and muttered, "Fine. I'll take the bet."
Kate leaned back, triumphant. "Well, well. We have a wager. Tiger King versus Wolfe. This just got a whole lot more interesting."
Tiger King hung up the phone, watching Wolfe's face on the TV with a smug smile. The man looked like he had just swallowed a lemon.
Seated beside him on the couch, Victoria—his wife—exhaled, her delicate fingers wrapped tightly around her teacup. Her emerald-green eyes were filled with worry.
She turned to him. "Tiger, tell me you won't actually jump if you lose."
Before he could answer, his young daughter, Alexa, giggled. "Daddy wouldn't lose!"
His son, David, pumped a fist in the air. "Yeah! Daddy's the best!"
Tiger King chuckled, pulling Victoria into his arms. His voice was steady, unwavering.
"You should know me by now. No matter where I am, your husband doesn't lose."
Victoria sighed, resting her head against his chest. "I trust you, but… Liverpool at Anfield is no joke. This isn't just a normal bet anymore. The whole country is watching."
Tiger King's eyes burned with determination as he gazed at the TV screen, where Kate Abdo was still smiling like a cat that had just cornered a mouse.
"Let them watch," he said coolly. "Because when we leave Anfield, it won't be me making excuses—it'll be them."
From the TV, Wolfe's bitter voice rang out again.
"Tiger King will definitely lose!"
Tiger King merely smirked. "We'll see."
The very next morning, Wolfe wasted no time in sharpening his pen, publishing a scathing column in The Sun aimed directly at Manchester United's so-called "crumbling foundation."
He ridiculed Tiger King's reliance on an aging and vulnerable backline, pointing out that Rio Ferdinand (35) and Nemanja Vidić (31) were past their primes, their legs no longer capable of keeping up with the relentless pace of the Premier League. He then took a jab at the midfield, calling it a "museum exhibit"—Ryan Giggs (39) was far too old to carry the team, Michael Carrick (31) was looking sluggish and broken, and Wayne Rooney, once United's talisman, was woefully out of form.
As if that wasn't enough, Wolfe mocked Tiger King's gamble on N'Golo Kanté, a complete unknown in English football.
Dismissing the young midfielder's impressive debut against Swansea, Wolfe labeled him a "one-game wonder" who lacked the physicality and technical ability to survive in the Premier League.
He wrote with disdain, "Running around like a headless chicken for 90 minutes doesn't make you a great midfielder. When the real test comes—against Liverpool, against the big teams—he'll be exposed for what he is: out of his depth." Wolfe argued that Kanté, who had been plucked from obscurity, would soon fade into irrelevance, unable to adapt to the intensity of English football.
But Wolfe didn't stop there. In his most brutal attack yet, he went on to declare that Tiger King's career as a manager would come to an end at Anfield.
He painted the upcoming match against Liverpool as "his last dance, a farewell performance before he bows out in disgrace."
With Brendan Rodgers' fluid, attacking system, and United's squad looking, as Wolfe put it, "more like an old-timers' charity match than a Premier League title contender," he predicted a humiliating defeat that would leave Tiger King with no choice but to walk away. "When the final whistle blows at Anfield," Wolfe wrote, "it won't just mark the end of a football match—it will mark the end of Tiger King's short-lived and misguided reign as Manchester United manager."
The morning sun hung low over Carrington as Tiger King strode onto the training pitch, a copy of The Sun folded under his arm. The players were already stretching, passing the ball between them, but when they saw the fire in their manager's eyes, a hush fell over the group. Without a word, he unfolded the newspaper and held it up for all to see.
Wolfe's column. His insults. His mockery.
The squad gathered around, eyes narrowing as they read. Wayne Rooney was the first to react—his face turning red with fury as he clenched his fists.
"A 'woefully out-of-form' Rooney?" he spat, shaking his head. "Alright then. I'll show that prick what 'out-of-form' looks like when I bury one past their keeper."
Beside him, Nemanja Vidić took a deep breath, his expression as steely as ever.
"No goals for them," he said simply. "None. I'll make sure of it."
Michael Carrick, usually the calmest presence on the pitch, gave a rare, determined nod. His voice was quiet but firm. "We're winning this one. No matter what."
Then, from the back of the group, Phil Jones suddenly let out a loud snort. Arms crossed, he turned to Tiger King with a mischievous grin.
"Gaffer," he said, barely able to contain his amusement. "You're still going to Tower Bridge, yeah?"
The squad turned to him, confused.
"Not to jump," Jones clarified. "To watch Wolfe jump into the Thames after we destroy Liverpool."
For a moment, there was silence. Then laughter erupted across the training ground. Even Tiger King couldn't help but chuckle.
"That's right," he said, his voice carrying across the field. "We're not just going to win. We're going to shut them up for good."
Seeing the squad's fire, Tiger King smiled to himself before turning away and walking toward the coaching staff—Paul Scholes, Mike Phelan, and Eric Steele—all of whom had been observing with folded arms and knowing smirks. Lowering his voice, Tiger muttered just loud enough for them to hear, "I think we should be thanking Wolfe for this."
Scholes chuckled, shaking his head. Steele let out a short laugh.
Phelan smirked and clapped Tiger King on the back. "Don't thank him," he said. "Just make sure we throw a proper event when we turn Wolfe into a river jumper."
The four men shared a knowing grin. The match was days away, but the battle had already begun.
The press room at the team hotel was packed. Reporters leaned forward eagerly, cameras flashing as Tiger King took his seat at the table, flanked by Wayne Rooney. The Manchester United manager looked calm, composed—completely unfazed by the storm of media speculation leading up to this clash. If anything, there was a quiet amusement in his eyes as he picked up the microphone.
"Liverpool will defend," Tiger King said smoothly, his voice carrying an air of certainty. "They'll do exactly what Mourinho did—sit deep, stay compact, and try to take a draw. Because for them, facing a strong Manchester United, getting a single point is already an achievement."
The room buzzed immediately. Reporters scribbled in their notebooks, while a few exchanged knowing glances. Tiger King had just dismissed Liverpool's ambition outright.
Beside him, Rooney, who had been sitting with arms crossed, suddenly raised an eyebrow. Wide-eyed, he gave a slow smirk, shaking his head.
"So let me get this straight," Rooney said, leaning toward the mic. "Liverpool are playing at Anfield, at home, in front of their own fans... and they're happy to settle for a draw? That's cute."
A few reporters chuckled. Tiger King remained silent, letting Rooney continue.
"I mean, I get it," Rooney went on, barely hiding his grin. "If I were Rodgers, I'd be worried too. We're coming off a 5-1 win and a draw against a Chelsea team that didn't even want to play football. But parking the bus at home? That's embarrassing. Thought Liverpool had some pride."
He paused for a moment, then turned his head slightly, as if speaking directly to Rodgers through the cameras.
"Don't worry, Brendan," Rooney added mockingly. "We'll still put one past you. Even if you stick eleven men in the box."
The press conference exploded with murmurs and laughter. Rooney leaned back in his chair, satisfied, while Tiger King allowed himself a small smirk.
If Liverpool hadn't planned to play defensively before, they would now. They had just been dared not to.
Barely thirty minutes later, Brendan Rodgers and Steven Gerrard took their seats at the Liverpool press conference, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife. The moment the cameras started rolling, reporters wasted no time relaying Tiger King's words and Rooney's taunt.
Rodgers' face twisted with fury. His usual composed demeanor was gone, replaced by a scowl that deepened with every repeated quote. Finally, he slammed his fist onto the table, making the microphones tremble.
"Enough!" Rodgers thundered, his voice carrying the full weight of his anger. "That rookie brat—Tiger King—needs to learn some respect! Tomorrow's match isn't just about three points anymore. It's about putting an end to this nonsense once and for all!"
The reporters sat frozen, eyes wide. Rodgers had snapped.
He leaned forward, his expression deadly serious. "We're not just aiming to win. We're winning 3-0—nothing less. We need to do this for the good of the Premier League. For the good of football. For the benefit of Manchester United itself, because that club deserves a real manager, not some arrogant fool playing at being the heir of Sir Alex Ferguson!"
At his side, Steven Gerrard, jaw clenched, nodded sharply. His usual media-trained restraint had vanished. He wasn't going to let this slide.
"They want to talk big?" Gerrard sneered, voice dripping with disdain. "Let them. Tomorrow, we'll show them why Anfield is no place for disrespectful, delusional amateurs."
Rodgers turned to the cameras, his face a storm of rage and determination. "Mark my words," he growled. "When we crush Manchester United tomorrow, that so-called 'Tiger King' will have no choice but to resign. The Premier League is no place for frauds!"
The press conference erupted with questions, flashing cameras, and murmurs of shock. This wasn't just a match anymore.
This was war.
Before a single ball had even been kicked, the English National Derby had already set the football world on fire. The deep-seated historical rivalry between Manchester United and Liverpool was enough to make this a must-watch match on any occasion, but this time, the grudges ran deeper, the stakes higher, and the drama richer than ever.
It wasn't just about three points.
It was about Tiger King vs. Brendan Rodgers—two managers at war with words.
It was about Rooney taunting Liverpool's pride, and Gerrard swearing revenge.
It was about Wolfe's river-jumping bet, a potential humiliation waiting to unfold.
The fans were in a frenzy. United supporters roared in confidence, convinced of their team's strength, while Liverpool fans seethed, determined to silence their rivals at Anfield.
But it wasn't just them. Even neutral football lovers—the so-called "melon eaters," as they were jokingly called—were eagerly watching. They had no allegiance to either side, but they lived for the spectacle.
A war of words, a promise of goals, and the looming shadow of a public humiliation.
This was more than a derby. This was pure, undiluted football drama.
As the Manchester United squad went through their pre-match warm-up under the floodlights of Anfield, Tiger King stood on the sidelines, a sheet of paper clutched in his hands—the Liverpool starting lineup. He scanned it carefully, and as he read through the names, a confident smirk crept onto his face.
"Perfect," he muttered under his breath. His heart was solid.
Brendan Rodgers had taken the bait. Liverpool had lined up in an attacking 4-3-3 formation:
Goalkeeper: Simon Mignolet—new to the league, still adjusting.
Defenders: Skrtel and Agger in the center, with Enrique and Johnson on the flanks—solid but not invincible.
Midfield Trio: Gerrard, Lucas, and Henderson—hard-working but not defensively airtight.
Front Three: Aspas, Coutinho, and Sturridge—dangerous, but could they break down United's disciplined defense?
The substitutes? Brad Jones (GK), Martin Kelly (RB), Flanagan (LB), Jordan Ibe (Winger), Luis Alberto (AM), Andre Wisdom (CB), Raheem Sterling (Winger/Forward). Mostly young and unproven.
Mike Phelan, sitting beside him, clapped his hands together, laughing.
"Tiger, you really pulled it off. Your little psychological game worked—Rodgers went all-out attack!"
At his other side, Scholes folded his arms, shaking his head in amusement.
"Captain," he said, using his old nickname for Tiger King, "you're turning into a proper schemer."
Tiger King chuckled but kept his gaze locked on the paper. "This game is going exactly as planned," he said. "I was worried Rodgers might do what Mourinho did—park the bus, make it ugly. But an attacking Liverpool?" He looked up, eyes gleaming. "That's the best thing we could've asked for."
Because if there was one thing Manchester United under Tiger King did not fear—it was an opponent trying to outgun them.
As the camera panned across the pitch, Sky Sports commentator Morris spoke into his microphone, reading out Manchester United's starting lineup.
"Despite sticking with their usual 4-4-2 formation, Manchester United have made some key changes today compared to their previous match," Morris explained, his voice carrying the excitement of the occasion.
Goalkeeper: David De Gea—the young Spaniard, ever reliable between the posts.
Defense: Nemanja Vidic partnered with new signing Toby Alderweireld in central defense, bringing both leadership and fresh energy to the backline. On the left, another new signing, Marcos Alonso, would be starting, while on the right, Tiger King opted for a more defensive-minded fullback, replacing Phil Jones with a specialist in defensive duties.
Midfield: N'Golo Kanté continued to anchor the center of the park, a vote of confidence from the manager despite media criticism labeling him a "one-game wonder." With Michael Carrick nursing a slight injury, club legend Ryan Giggs stepped in, adding experience and creativity to the heart of midfield.
Wingers: On the right, Nani kept his spot, while on the left, new signing Riyad Mahrez made his first start, a move that intrigued both fans and pundits alike.
Forwards: The deadly duo of Wayne Rooney and Robin van Persie remained unchanged, looking to spearhead United's attack.
On the bench, Tiger King had options to change the game if needed:
Alisson Becker—the young Brazilian goalkeeper, ready if called upon.
Virgil van Dijk—another new defensive signing, waiting for his chance to prove himself.
Rafael da Silva—a more attacking alternative at right-back.
Ashley Young and Antonio Valencia—two versatile wingers who could add energy late in the game.
Jesse Lingard and Anthony Martial—young, hungry attackers eager to make an impact.
Morris continued: "It's an interesting lineup from Tiger King. The big question—can Kanté prove his critics wrong? Can Mahrez handle the pressure of a game of this magnitude? And can Giggs, at 39, still boss the midfield against Liverpool?"
The crowd roared as the teams took their positions.
This wasn't just a game. This was the battle for England dominance.
As the Sky Sports broadcast continued, Raman analyzed the Manchester United starting lineup, his tone tinged with skepticism.
"Wow, take a look at Tiger King's lineup—it's really something," Raman said, scanning the squad list. "He's gone for a more defensive right-back instead of Rafael, and he's pulling Rooney deeper to stand in front of Giggs in midfield. But what really stands out? No Ferdinand, no Anderson, no Kagawa—three players who were regulars under Sir Alex Ferguson. What does that tell us?"
Raman continued scrutinizing the Manchester United starting lineup, his voice laced with amusement.
"Alright, let's break this down. Tiger King has made some bold choices today. Phil Jones starts, providing defensive steel, but no Ferdinand? The man who once anchored this defense is nowhere to be seen. Word is, his knees have been wobbling worse than a jelly on a rollercoaster."
A chuckle rippled through the studio, but Raman wasn't done. He flipped through a few newspapers dramatically.
"And what about Anderson? This was the guy who was supposed to step up, but against Chelsea, he played like he was dragging a piano on his back. No surprise he's out of the squad today."
Beside him, Morris quickly stepped in to justify Tiger King's decisions.
"Look, it's Anfield. It's one of the most hostile grounds in English football. There's absolutely nothing wrong with setting up defensively to control the game. It's called smart management."
But Raman wasn't letting this go so easily.
"Smart management? Or damage control?" he challenged. "This is the same Tiger King who mocked Rodgers for being afraid to attack. He called Liverpool a weak team that wouldn't dare to play on the front foot. And yet, look at his own lineup—stacked with defensive stability. So, tell me, Morris, where's that fearless, attacking United he promised? He lines up with a solid midfield with a more defensive shape. What happened to the fearless Tiger King? This is ridiculous!"
As the pundits clashed over their interpretations of the lineup, inside the stadium, the real battle was about to begin.
Deep in the Liverpool locker room, Brendan Rodgers was pacing like a man possessed. His blood boiled at the pre-match talk. He had seen the headlines, heard the taunts, and felt the disrespect. And now, he had only one thing to say.
His players—Gerrard, Henderson, Sturridge, Coutinho, and the rest—sat listening intently. Rodgers had been going over tactical instructions, but now, he stopped. He scanned the room, locking eyes with each of his warriors.
Then, he took a deep breath and roared: "Today, we go all-out attack! We must win against Manchester United! No sitting back, no second-guessing! We show them what Liverpool is made of!"
The room erupted with shouts and applause.
Gerrard stood up, his eyes burning with determination. He pointed at the Liverpool crest on his chest. "This badge means something! They mocked us, they doubted us, and now they'll feel us! I want them drowning under our pressure from the first whistle!"
Henderson, Liverpool's future leader, nodded sharply, clenching his fists. "They think they can walk into Anfield and push us around? Not today. We'll suffocate them, we'll hunt them down, and we'll make them regret every word they've said!"
Sturridge cracked his knuckles, grinning. "I don't care who's marking me—I'm scoring today. And when I do, I want this place shaking!"
Skrtel and Agger exchanged glances before nodding. "Rooney, Van Persie, whoever steps in our box—we make them regret it," Agger growled.
Rodgers slammed his fist into his palm. "I don't care what tactics they try! I don't care how defensive they play! We press them, we break them, and we send a message to the entire league! This is Anfield, and no one disrespects us in our own home!"
The roar in the dressing room was deafening.
They weren't just playing for three points. They were playing to humiliate Tiger King.
The stage was set. The England national derby was seconds away.
In the visiting locker room at Anfield, Tiger King stood firm in the center, his voice steady, commanding, unwavering. The noise of Liverpool's war cries outside was distant, drowned out by his own team's unshakable focus.
"Liverpool has set up in a 4-3-3," he began, scanning the determined faces before him. "They've convinced themselves they can overrun us, that they can attack aggressively and leave us gasping for air. Let them."
The players listened intently, their bodies already tense with adrenaline.
"They think they can dominate us with their short passes, their speed, their pressing game? Fine. We absorb, we recover, and we punish. We let them come forward, wait for their mistakes, and then we strike. A single counterattack, one ruthless moment, and we kill Liverpool!"
A roar erupted from the players. "KILL LIVERPOOL! KILL LIVERPOOL!"
The chant echoed off the locker room walls. Fists were clenched. Blood was boiling. After all, this was the English national derby. There was no greater battle.
The roar in the locker room grew. The players were ready.
Tiger King straightened his jacket, exhaled slowly, and led them to the tunnel.
It was time.