"King's Apology!" This was the blaring headline of The Sun on the morning of September 25th.
Wolf, the veteran reporter who had been among the crowd at Carrington the previous day, felt as though he'd just gulped down an ice-cold Coke on a scorching summer afternoon when he heard King's words. Euphoric, he rushed home without even bothering to eat, writing deep into the night. By sunrise, his feverish draft—titled King's Apology—was in print. Editor-in-chief Bright barely needed to glance at it before giving the green light to publish it overnight.
"After the Manchester Derby fiasco, Tiger has finally matured," the article sneered. "He's realized how ridiculous he was to bet on a 'season double' over Liverpool. That was nothing short of a joke! Sure, he snatched three points at Anfield last month, but does that give him any guarantee of another win later this season? Let alone tonight in the League Cup?"
"Look at United's situation now: Ferdinand and Vidic—injured. Carrick and Kante—injured. Phil Jones—suspended. That's five key defensive players out! How is this patched-up backline supposed to hold off a hungry Liverpool, determined for revenge? Simply put—it's impossible!"
"And yet, King did something smart for once. He bent the knee. Admitting fault before the game may be embarrassing, but it's far better than chest-thumping before a crushing loss. But there's just one problem: Tiger seems to have forgotten our little agreement. He promised, on record, that if United didn't double Liverpool this season, he'd jump off the Tower Bridge into the Thames. No amount of apologies will wash that away. Unless he's ready to confess failure and take the plunge, The Sun won't hesitate to take him to court!"
At Carrington that morning, under a grey Manchester sky, Manchester United were locked in their final tactical session before the match. The focus was set pieces and offensive movement. On the sidelines, Phelan and Scholes huddled together, frowning at a printed copy of The Sun.
"Sue him? Let them try!" Phelan scoffed, his voice tight with contempt.
Scholes gave him a subtle elbow. "Keep your voice down. Don't let the boss hear—he's been in a foul mood all week."
King, sitting silently by the coach's bench, seemed lost in thought—eyes closed, arms folded. Phelan glanced over at him.
"Do you really think the media got that apology right?" Phelan muttered.
Scholes shook his head. "Even the Manchester Evening News is reporting it. Seems legit."
"But that's not like him," Phelan insisted. "You know what he's like. Tiger doesn't back down—especially not to Rodgers."
"True. But he said he'd explain everything at the press conference this afternoon. Let's wait."
It wasn't just the staff who were confused. The players had been whispering about it in the locker room since early morning.
Rafael, stretching beside Jones, leaned over and asked, "Hey, why do you think the boss apologized to Rodgers yesterday?"
Jones shrugged. "No idea. I don't get it either. Has he lost faith in us?"
Giggs, nearby, turned sharply. "Watch your mouth. You clearly don't know him. I've known the gaffer for twenty years. Not once has he ever bowed to pressure. Not when he tore his knee apart and had his career ended. Not even then."
Van Persie nodded firmly. "He's not someone who gives up. If he said that in public, it must've been for a reason."
Even Rooney chimed in. "We'll know soon enough. Let's just focus until then."
Out on the training ground, the session intensified. The players trained with focus and edge. The sting of the derby loss had faded. What remained was curiosity—why had the manager made that strange public apology?
Yet, among them, one man was quietly basking in the supposed downfall of the boss—Anderson.
He had been sidelined for weeks. Not even making the bench. Once a trusted piece under Ferguson, now completely discarded under Tiger's reign. When he read the article about the apology, he smirked to himself.
So now you apologize, huh? If I had started against City, maybe it wouldn't have been a massacre.
With the squad threadbare and Giggs nearing his physical limits, Anderson believed his chance had come. Today, he trained harder than he had in months—each pass crisper, each sprint sharper.
But it wasn't just Anderson. Everyone trained like something had shifted. The embarrassment of the derby had fueled a hunger. Now they all awaited noon, their focus split between the pitch and the looming press conference.
Even Woodward showed up to observe training—his first such visit in weeks. He exchanged quiet words with Phelan, Scholes, and Steele, then left, his expression unreadable.
From the coach's bench, King watched the scene unfold—the players running, tackling, shouting, laughing again. His eyes scanned them with quiet satisfaction.
Good, he thought. The storm has passed. They've come through the worst of it.
Now, it was his turn.
The players had shaken off the scars of defeat. At noon, it would be Tiger's time to speak—not with apologies.
But with fire.
Because if anyone thought the Tiger had lost his claws...
They were about to be very, very wrong.