The flight to Chornomorts, Ukraine, was long, quiet, and suffocatingly cold.
Inside the Boeing charter carrying the Manchester United squad, the air was thick with the hum of jet engines and the quiet tension of a team under mounting pressure. The 1-1 draw at Goodison Park still hung over their heads like a dark cloud. Jose Mourinho sat in the very front row of first class, his laptop open, illuminated by the cold glow of video analysis footage showing Zorya Luhansk’s compact 4-4-2 setup.
Harry sat near the back of the player cabin, wearing his heavy club parka and a black beanie pulled low over his ears. Outside the small airplane window, thick gray clouds stretched infinitely.
He leaned his head back against the leather headrest, closing his eyes. His body still ached from the brutal physical battles against Everton's backline. In his previous life back in 2024, watching United’s Europa League away games meant sitting in a warm living room with a hot cup of tea, complaining on Twitter about sluggish passing and poor tactical structure.
Now, he was living the reality of the grueling Thursday-Sunday European schedule. The endless travel, the freezing temperatures, the pitch conditions that felt more like frozen concrete than top-tier grass—it was a world away from the glamorous image of modern football.
"You look like you're about to be marched off to the gulag, Marc," Paul Pogba joked, sliding into the aisle seat next to him. The French midfielder was wearing bright gold headphones around his neck, looking as relaxed as ever despite the bleak environment awaiting them.
"Just thinking about the pitch," Harry replied, his voice raspy. "I saw the weather report. It’s dropping to minus six degrees in Odessa tonight."
"Ah, winter football," Pogba laughed, shaking his head. "Bro, you just run fast! When you run fast, you don't feel the cold. That's the secret."
"Easy for you to say," Harry smirked slightly. "You don't have to sprint forty yards back to tackle their right-wing back on ice."
Pogba leaned in a bit closer, his playful tone shifting into something more serious. "Listen to me, young man. Don't let Jose put too much weight in your head. He wants you to work, yes. But when we get into the final third, forget the defense. Be free. You have the fire in your legs. Use it."
Harry looked at Pogba and nodded. The Frenchman had his own critics, but on his day, his vision was unmatched. In Harry’s mind, the tactical key for tonight's game was already crystal clear: Zorya played an extremely narrow defensive line, leaving huge spaces in the channels behind their central defenders. If Pogba could turn in midfield and find Harry’s diagonal runs into those gaps, Zorya’s slow backline wouldn't stand a chance.
The Chornomorets Stadium was a fortress of ice and shadows.
The pitch was horrific. Large patches of grass were frozen solid, covered in a thin layer of sand and de-icer that made the surface slippery and unpredictable. The sub-zero Ukrainian wind whipped through the open corners of the stadium, cutting straight through the players' thermal base-layers during the pre-match warm-up.
Mourinho stood on the touchline in a massive hooded winter coat, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. During the final team talk in the cramped, freezing away locker room, his instructions were brief and brutal.
"This is not a night for beautiful football," Mourinho said, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "This pitch is dangerous. The referee will not give soft fouls. If you mess around with short passing in our own half, you will slip, you will lose the ball, and you will give them a chance. Play direct. Win the second balls. Get the win, get the three points, and get on the plane home."
He turned his gaze onto Harry. "Marcus. You start as the central striker tonight. Zlatan rests on the bench."
Harry felt a surge of electricity course through his veins, instantly cutting through the bitter chill in his fingers. Central striker. His natural, favorite position. No tracking back to defend the corner flag like a full-back. Just pure, focused attacking instinct.
"Show me you can lead the line alone," Jose added sternly.
The first forty-five minutes were a absolute grind.
The ball bounced erratically on the hard ground, making clean first touches almost impossible. Zorya Luhansk played with aggressive, physical intensity, tackling hard and throwing their bodies into every challenge.
In the 18th minute, Harry received a pass with his back to goal. Before he could turn, Zorya’s central defender, Rafael Forster, slammed into his spine, sending Harry crashing onto the frozen turf. The referee waved play on.
Harry spat out a mouthful of icy dirt and dragged himself back up, his elbow bleeding through his thermal undershirt.
By halftime, the score was 0-0. United had dominated possession, but created very few clear-cut chances. The dressing room at the break smelled of rubbing alcohol, deep-heat cream, and frustration.
Harry sat on the bench, wrapping a hot towel around his neck to stop his teeth from chattering.
"The defender, Forster," Harry said aloud, looking up at Mourinho and the rest of the squad. "He’s stepping up aggressively every time I drop short to receive the ball."
Mourinho raised an eyebrow, motioning for Harry to continue.
"He's gambling on my first touch on this bad pitch," Harry explained, his 2024 tactical breakdown taking over instinctively. "He thinks I want the ball into my feet. In the second half, I’m going to fake dropping short to pull him out of position, and then spin into the space behind him. Paul, if you see me drop my shoulder, don't play it to my feet—clip it over his head into the left channel."
Pogba looked at Harry, a confident grin spreading across his face. "I like it. I see you, Marc."
Mourinho didn't say a word, but he gave a single, firm nod of approval.
The second half began under a heavier dusting of snow.
In the 48th minute, Henrikh Mkhitaryan scored a brilliant solo goal, driving through the heart of Zorya's midfield and slotting the ball into the bottom corner to give United a 1-0 lead. The goal settled the team's nerves, but Zorya immediately pushed forward in search of an equalizer, leaving even more space in their defensive third.
The moment came in the 83rd minute.
Zorya lost the ball near United’s penalty box. Sergio Romero quickly threw the ball out to Pogba near the center circle.
Harry was positioned forty yards out, guarded tightly by Forster. Remembering his plan, Harry made a sudden, sharp sharp movement toward Pogba, pretending he was coming short to offer a passing option.
Forster fell for the bait instantly, stepping forward aggressively to intercept the potential short pass.
The moment Forster committed his weight forward, Harry planted his right boot into the turf and spun off the defender's shoulder, accelerating into the wide-open space behind the opposition line.
Pogba didn't even take a second touch. Reading Harry’s movement perfectly, the Frenchman struck a long, curling ball with the outside of his boot. The ball cut through the freezing night air, dropping over the heads of the stranded Ukrainian defense.
Harry exploded into top gear.
The snow stung his eyes as he chased the ball down the right channel. He reached it just inside the eighteen-yard box. The goalkeeper came rushing out, spreading his legs and arms wide to block the shot.
Don't rush. Keep your composure, Harry told himself.
In his previous life, he had seen young players panic in this exact situation, rushing their shot or smashing it straight into the keeper's chest. But Harry stayed icy cool. He faked a powerful shot with his right foot, catching the goalkeeper off balance. Instead of shooting, he used a subtle, soft touch with his left toe, dragging the ball around the sprawling keeper.
With the net gaping wide open before him, Harry casually rolled the ball into the bottom corner.
GOAL! Zorya Luhansk 0 - 2 Manchester United (84')
Harry sprinted toward the away section where two hundred die-hard United fans had traveled all the way to Eastern Europe. He slid on his knees across the icy grass, spreading his arms wide as his teammates swarmed him, pounding his back and screaming in celebration.
"Cold blood, kid!" Pogba yelled, lifting Harry off his feet. "Cold blood!"
The referee blew the final whistle ten minutes later. Manchester United had secured their place in the knockout stages of the Europa League.
Inside the post-match press conference, the media room was packed with local and international journalists. Jose Mourinho took his seat at the microphone, looking satisfied for the first time in weeks.
"Marcus played like a mature center-forward tonight," Mourinho said into the microphone when asked about Rashford's performance. "He did not just rely on his speed. He used his head. He analyzed the defender, he found the solution, and he killed the game. That is what I want from him."
An hour later, Harry sat near the back of the team bus heading back to the airport. His phone buzzed in his hand. He hesitated before flipping the screen over, half-expecting more tabloid drama.
Instead, the notifications were vastly different tonight:
BBC Sport: "Rashford’s Tactical Brilliance Seals Knockout Spot for Manchester United."
Sky Sports: "Mourinho Praises 'Mature' Rashford After Masterclass in Ukraine."
Among the news alerts was a private text message from an unknown number:
"Great composure on the goal tonight, Marcus. Keep that level of focus. We have Spurs on Sunday. - WR10"
Harry stared at the message from Wayne Rooney, a faint, genuine smile forming on his face.
He leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the bus window, watching the streetlights of Odessa blur past in the snowy night. The physical pain was still there, his bruised elbow throbbed, and the exhaustion was settled deep into his bones. But as he looked at his reflection in the dark glass, he knew he was growing—not just as an eighteen-year-old boy in a giant’s shoes, but as a footballer worthy of wearing the shirt.
Sunday was coming. Tottenham Hotspur was waiting at Old Trafford. And Harry was ready.
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