Summer 2017 arrived with the blistering heat of UCLA’s training complex in Los Angeles, where Manchester United had set up their pre-season camp. The silver Europa League trophy sat in the club’s cabinet back home, but in football, past glory died the moment the new season’s schedule was released.
Harry sat on an exercise bike inside the air-conditioned gym, his legs churning at a steady rhythm while heart-rate monitors clicked on his chest. His body had undergone a remarkable physical transformation over the two-month break. Under a strict, individualized strength program, he had added four kilograms of functional muscle. His shoulders were broader, his core anchored with core stability, and his right hamstring was completely healed.
Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, he watched a massive, looming figure walking across the grass in a red training kit.
Romelu Lukaku.
With Zlatan Ibrahimović recovering from his knee reconstruction, Mourinho had spent £75 million to snatch the Belgian striker from Everton. The signing sent a shockwave through the media, instantly sparking a predictable line of questioning: Will Marcus Rashford be pushed back to the bench?
"You're staring at him like he stole your lunch money," Jesse Lingard said, sliding onto the bike beside Harry, sweating through his shirt.
"I'm looking at his movement," Harry replied, adjusting his resistance level. "He's dominant when he can run face-forward into space, but he relies heavily on his left foot when receiving with his back to goal."
Lingard shook his head, laughing softly. "Bro, the guy just cost seventy-five million quid. Most nineteen-year-olds would be sweating their starting spot. You're sitting here doing a tactical scouting report on your own teammate."
"If we want to win the Premier League, we need thirty goals from him," Harry said simply, getting off the bike and wiping his neck with a towel. "And I'm not giving up my spot on the left for anyone."
In his 2024 memory, Harry knew the narrative surrounding Lukaku's time at United—how the Belgian had struggled with first-touch consistency in tight games, leading to immense media pressure. Harry wasn't jealous of the signing; his tactical brain recognized that having a powerhouse like Lukaku pulling two central defenders opened up massive horizontal lanes for a sharp, inverted winger.
The first real test of the new dynamic arrived in early August at the Philip II Arena in Skopje, Macedonia.
The UEFA Super Cup: Manchester United versus Real Madrid.
The Macedonian night was suffocatingly hot, the temperature hovering near 35°C even at 9:00 PM. Zinedine Zidane’s Real Madrid was at the absolute peak of their powers—a terrifying midfield diamond of Luka Modrić, Toni Kroos, and Casemiro, supported by the terrifying brilliance of Isco and Karim Benzema.
Mourinho started Lukaku up front, leaving Harry on the bench as a tactical nuclear option for the second half.
From the opening whistle, Madrid put on a clinic in possession football. Modrić and Kroos dictated the tempo with surgical precision, making United’s midfield chase shadows in the oppressive heat. Casemiro opened the scoring in the 24th minute, sliding in behind the defense, before Isco doubled Madrid's lead early in the second half with a slick one-two inside the box.
Real Madrid 2 - 0 Manchester United (52')
Mourinho turned to the bench, his face grim. "Marcus. Marouane. Warm up. Three minutes."
Harry ripped off his track jacket, stepping up to the touchline. His pulse hammered in his ears—not from fear, but from an overwhelming desire to test himself against the reigning kings of Europe.
In the 56th minute, the double substitution was made: Rashford on for Jesse Lingard, Fellaini on for Ander Herrera.
"Marcus," Mourinho whispered, grabbing Harry's arm tightly as he stood at the center line. "Carvajal is on a yellow card. Drive at him. Don't let him breathe."
Harry stepped onto the pitch. Across from him stood Dani Carvajal, Raphael Varane, and Sergio Ramos—the most formidable defensive unit in world football.
Immediately, the energy of the match shifted.
Harry positioned himself on the wide left, stretching Real Madrid’s narrow diamond. In the 62nd minute, Pogba won a tackle in midfield and fed Harry near the touchline.
Carvajal stepped up cautiously, maintaining a two-yard cushion, wary of Harry's explosive speed.
Harry didn't stall. Using his upgraded upper-body frame, he drove straight into Carvajal’s inside shoulder. As Varane moved over to cover, Harry executed a lightning-fast stepover, shifting the ball onto his right foot and unleashing a stinging, thirty-yard strike.
Keylor Navas could only parry the ball into the path of Romelu Lukaku, who smashed the rebound into the net.
Real Madrid 2 - 1 Manchester United (62')
"COME ON!" Harry roared, grabbing the ball out of the net and sprinting back to the center circle.
The goal ignited United. Suddenly, Madrid’s composure flickered under the raw, direct pace of Rashford.
In the 81st minute, the moment arrived—a chance that would haunt Harry’s sleep for weeks.
Mkhitaryan played a brilliant, threaded ground pass through the high line of Ramos and Varane.
Harry anticipated the pass perfectly, bursting past Sergio Ramos with three strides of raw, unadulterated acceleration. He was completely clear, one-on-one against Keylor Navas, isolated in the center of the box.
The stadium held its breath.
Navas rushed off his line, spreading his body.
Harry took a touch with his right foot, preparing to open his hips and curl the ball into the far right corner. But in the sweltering heat, his supporting left foot planted half an inch too close to the ball on the dry, sticky turf.
His strike lacked its usual clean lift. The ball stayed low, clipping the top of Keylor Navas’ raised thigh and flying over the crossbar for a corner kick.
Harry buried his face in his hands, staring at the turf in disbelief. He had beaten Sergio Ramos; he had outrun Varane; he had done the hardest part—and he had failed the execution.
Real Madrid held on for a 2-1 victory, lifting the Super Cup.
Inside the humid dressing room after the match, the mood was sour. Ice packs were slapped onto ankles, and water bottles were tossed into bins.
Harry sat alone in his stall, his head down, still wearing his sweat-soaked jersey. He couldn't shake the image of Navas’ thigh blocking his shot. In a game against the absolute elite, you got one chance. Missing it was the difference between holding a European trophy and watching someone else lift it.
A shadow fell over his locker.
Sergio Ramos stood there, his hair pulled back, a towel draped over his shoulders, holding his white Real Madrid shirt in his hand. The legendary Spanish captain looked down at the nineteen-year-old.
"You," Ramos said in sharp, heavily accented English, gesturing toward Harry. "Change?"
Harry looked up, surprised. He stood up, unpeeling his #19 United shirt and handing it over.
Ramos accepted the jersey, draping it over his shoulder, then took Harry’s hand in a firm, powerful grip, pulling him in close.
"You have the speed, chico," Ramos said softly, his eyes dead serious. "In three years, no defender in Europe will be able to stop you if you fix that left-foot balance when you shoot under pressure. Watch the film. Learn."
Ramos patted Harry’s cheek firmly and walked away into the corridors of the stadium.
Harry stood holding Sergio Ramos’ white shirt, the fabric smelling of sweat and expensive cologne. He looked down at the famous crest, feeling a surge of cold, razor-sharp clarity settle inside his chest.
The validation from one of the greatest defenders in history didn't make the missed chance hurt any less—it made it more important. Ramos was right. Good wasn't enough. Raw speed wasn't enough. To crush teams like Real Madrid, every detail of his technique had to be flawless.
Mourinho walked past Harry’s stall, stopping briefly. He looked at the white Real Madrid shirt in Harry's hands, then at the burning determination in the young forward's eyes.
"The Premier League starts in five days against West Ham," Mourinho said quietly. "Are you ready?"
Harry folded Ramos' shirt neatly, placing it at the bottom of his duffel bag, and looked his manager dead in the eye.
"I'm going to destroy them, boss."
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