December arrived in Manchester like an unwelcome draft, wrapping the brick facades of the city in a perpetual gray gloom. At Carrington, the grass was slick with frost every morning, forcing the players to wear thermal under-layers that smelled faintly of detergent and damp heat.
Harry sat in the dressing room, unlacing his boots after a grueling tactical session. His body throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. In his past life as an eighteen-year-old fan in 2024, football was ninety minutes of entertainment on a high-definition screen. In 2016, inside the skin of Marcus Rashford, it was an endless cycle of physical wear and tear—ice baths, deep-tissue massage, resistance bands, and micro-adjustments to his sprint mechanics.
"You look like you're carrying the weight of the city on your shoulders, kid," Jesse Lingard said, sliding onto the bench next to him and tossing a neon-colored sports drink into Harry's lap.
Harry caught it with one hand, offering a faint smile. "Just tired, Jess. The fixtures are piling up."
"Welcome to December in the Prem," Lingard grinned, leaning back against the wooden lockers. "No winter break, pitch like concrete, and Jose watching your every step like a hawk. Speaking of which... you seen the tabloids this morning?"
Harry groaned, rubbing his temples. "What is it now?"
Lingard pulled out his phone, tapping the screen before handing it over.
The headline was bold, garish, and explicitly designed to provoke:
"RASHFORD'S NIGHTCLUB CLASH: UNITED STARLET IN HEATED ARGUMENT WITH POP STAR AT MAYFAIR HOTSPOT"
The article claimed Harry had gotten into a shouting match with an up-and-coming pop singer outside a London club over the weekend—a weekend where Harry had actually been at home in his apartment, eating pasta and studying opposition fullback film with his brother Dane.
"It’s total fiction," Harry muttered, handing the phone back. "I wasn't even in London."
"Doesn't matter to them, mate," Lingard said softly, his usual playful demeanor dropping for a rare moment of genuine advice. "Once your name is big enough, your ghost buys drinks in London while you're asleep in Manchester. You gotta learn to ignore it, or it eats you alive."
Before Harry could respond, the dressing room door swung open. José Mourinho stepped in, dressed in his dark club tracksuit, his notebook tucked firmly under his arm. The room quieted down immediately.
"Marcus," Mourinho said, his dark eyes fixing directly on Harry. "My office. Now."
The manager's office at Carrington was austere. A grand wooden desk dominated the room, stacked with tactical printouts, video analysis notes, and a framed photograph of Mourinho holding the Champions League trophy.
"Sit," Mourinho commanded, gesturing to the leather chair opposite him.
Harry sat down, keeping his posture straight. He looked Jose in the eye, refusing to look nervous.
Mourinho leaned back, crossing his arms. "I don't care about the tabloids, Marcus. I know where you were on Sunday. Your brother sent me the location tags from your recovery session at home."
Harry let out a subtle breath of relief, but Jose lifted a finger, cutting off any comfort.
"However," Mourinho continued, his tone sharp, "what I do care about is what happens on the pitch. In three days, we play Everton at Goodison Park. Then we fly to Ukraine for Zorya Luhansk. Then Tottenham at home. I need a winger who tracks back. I need a player who respects the defensive transition."
Mourinho pulled a sheet of paper toward him—a heat map of Harry’s performance from the previous match.
"Look at this," Jose pointed to the left flank. "You stay too high when the fullback overlaps. You leave Luke [Shaw] exposed. You think because you score goals, you don't have to defend? In my teams, everybody works. Eden Hazard defended when I asked him to. Samuel Eto'o played left-back for me in a Champions League semi-final. You are eighteen years old. You are not above the work."
Harry bit his lip. His tactical mind from 2024 knew Jose was right—Mourinho’s entire system relied on compact defensive blocks and rapid counter-attacks. But his instincts inside Rashford’s explosive body wanted to stay high, on the shoulder of the last defender, ready to burst into space.
"I understand, boss," Harry said quietly. "I'll track the fullback. I'll cover the channel."
Mourinho looked at him intently, searching his face for any sign of rebellion or arrogance. Finding none, the manager nodded slowly.
"Good. You start on the left against Everton. Show me you have the discipline."
Goodison Park on a cold Sunday afternoon was an amphitheater of noise and aggression. The wooden grandstands shook with the stomping of local fans, and the air was thick with the bitter chill of the Irish Sea.
Everton pushed hard from the opening whistle. Their right-back, Seamus Coleman, charged forward at every opportunity, overlapping with dangerous intent.
Harry kept his promise. Every time Coleman pushed forward, Harry sprinted forty yards backward, tracking the run, cutting off the passing lane, and plugging the gap left by United's midfield. By the thirty-fifth minute, his legs felt like lead. The physical exertion of endless defensive recovery runs was draining his offensive sharpness.
When United won the ball back in the 40th minute, Pogba clipped a brilliant pass into the left channel.
Harry sprinted after it, but the sudden burst of acceleration lacked its usual lightning spark. Everton defender Ashley Williams matched him stride for stride, using his body to shield the ball out for a goal kick.
The away end groaned. Harry stood near the corner flag, hands on his knees, gasping for air.
I'm playing too defensively, Harry thought, his mind racing. If I spend all my energy covering Coleman, I won't have the sharpness to beat my man when the transition happens.
In the 42nd minute, Zlatan Ibrahimović scored a sublime, looping chip that bounced off the crossbar and crossed the line before being cleared. United led 1-0 at halftime.
Inside the away dressing room at half-time, the mood was tense.
"Marcus, you are too deep!" Zlatan shouted, unwrapping his wrist tape. "When I flick the ball on, you are thirty yards behind me! I cannot run for two people!"
"I'm tracking Coleman like the manager asked!" Harry retorted, stepping up to the Swedish striker. He wasn't going to let anyone intimidate him, not even Zlatan. "If I don't track him, he overload our right side!"
"Then run faster!" Zlatan barked back, getting right into Harry's space. "You are young! You have two lungs like a horse! Don't give me excuses!"
"Enough!" Mourinho stepped between them, his voice cutting through the tension. "Marcus is doing what I asked. But Zlatan is right about the space. Marcus, in the second half, read the moment. Don't blindly follow Coleman every time. Anticipate when Everton's midfield is about to lose the ball, and step into the space before they react."
Harry nodded, wiping sweat from his eyes. Anticipate, don't just react.
The second half was a war of attrition. Everton pressed higher and higher, desperation driving their tempo. In the 85th minute, Mourinho made a substitution to protect the 1-0 lead, bringing on Marouane Fellaini for Anthony Martial.
The tactical move backfired almost instantly. Two minutes after coming on, Fellaini made a clumsy, mistimed challenge inside the box, tripping Idrissa Gueye.
Penalty.
The Goodison Park crowd exploded into a deafening roar. Leighton Baines stepped up and smashed the penalty past David de Gea.
Everton 1 - 1 Manchester United (89')
The whistle blew minutes later. A 1-1 draw felt like a devastating defeat.
Inside the tunnel, frustration erupted. Players shouted, water bottles were kicked across the floor, and the disappointment was suffocating. Harry walked silently to his locker, sinking onto the bench. He had run nearly 11 kilometers, made four defensive tackles, and tracked his fullback all afternoon—yet the result was another two points dropped in a struggling Premier League campaign.
He looked down at his phone in his bag. Messages were already pouring in. News alerts popped up:
"Mourinho's Tactical Stagnation: Is Rashford Being Misused as a Defender?"
"United Drop Points Again: Title Race Slipping Away"
Harry turned the screen off and tossed the phone deep into his duffel bag.
He realized then the true reality of his new life. Being Marcus Rashford wasn't about highlight-reel goals or viral moments. It was about enduring the grind when the system wasn't working, taking the hit when the tabloid press lied about you, and waking up the next morning at 7:00 AM to do it all over again.
He stood up, grabbed his towel, and walked toward the showers. There was no time to mourn lost points. In four days, they were flying to the freezing pitch of Odessa, Ukraine. And Harry was determined to make sure that next time, he would be the one to decide the game.
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