As Martial sprinted toward the corner flag, arms outstretched, the roar of Old Trafford thundered through the air. Tiger King and Paul Scholes burst from the technical area, rushing to the sideline, celebrating like players in their prime.
Tiger wrapped Martial in a fierce hug, his face glowing with pride. "Brilliant finish! That's exactly what we trained for!" he shouted, before turning to Fletcher, clapping his hands vigorously.
"Outstanding vision, Darren! That's what I need from you—calm, clever passes like that!"
Then, voice rising above the celebration, Tiger rallied the rest of his squad. "Just like this! Play exactly like this! Follow the plan and we'll tear them apart!"
This had been no accident. No lucky break. It was the execution of a bold plan—one laid out days in advance in the training ground's war room.
Flashback: Pre-Match Tactical Briefing
Tiger stood before his squad, marker in hand and tactics board behind him, every player leaning forward in silence.
"Last time at Anfield, they attacked like mad dogs," he said. "We sat deep, countered, and punished them 3-0."
He paused. "But this time... we're not just going to react. We're going to control. We attack first. We set the tone. We show them who owns this pitch."
He looked at Martial. "You — you're not just pace and flair. You're our dagger. The more they push forward, the more space opens up behind them. You time your runs, we find you. Finish it."
He turned to the midfielders. "Giggs. Rooney. Nani. Mahrez. Fletcher. You all can shoot. If there's a window, take it. Let them know they're never safe."
Now, ten minutes in and one goal up, Tiger returned to the dugout and dropped into his seat with a long exhale. Scholes sat beside him, still wide-eyed.
"Captain... why go toe-to-toe with Liverpool like this?" he asked. "We could've played it safe. Another counterattacking game would've made sense, no?"
Tiger sighed and leaned in. "Paul, believe me, I wanted to. If we had a healthy squad, I'd have parked the bus and waited to hit them where it hurts. But look at our lineup today."
He discreetly nodded toward the bench. "No natural holding midfielders. No senior centre-backs on standby. If something happens to Toby or Virgil... what do I do? Put Ashley Young at centre-back?"
Scholes winced. "Right. And Fletcher's more box-to-box than a pure anchor."
Tiger nodded gravely. "Exactly. And Van Dijk and Alderweireld — solid players, but this is only their second match as a pair. No chemistry. No shared muscle memory. If we sit deep and invite pressure, we break. And not slowly — we collapse."
He straightened up. "So I made a choice. Attack. Drag them into a goal-fest. Our forwards are in form. Martial's movement, Mahrez's magic, Rooney's fire... If we're going to win, it's by scoring more, not conceding less."
Scholes gave a slow nod. "A brave call, but... it makes sense now. It really does."
Tiger gave a wry chuckle. "It's not bravery, Paul. It's necessity disguised as courage."
Then Scholes furrowed his brow, remembering something. "By the way... we could've appealed Jones' red card. Even if we lost the appeal, it would've delayed his suspension. He could've played tonight. Why didn't we do that?"
Tiger's expression turned thoughtful. "Because Jones is already beating himself up. He came to me after the derby, apologizing over and over. If we appeal, the FA might call him in, question him again. It'd prolong the guilt. Make him relive it. That's not what he needs right now."
"So... better to take the hit quietly?"
"Exactly," Tiger said. "Let the dust settle. The red card goes away. He moves on. A young player's confidence is fragile. If you let regret rot inside them, it eats their future."
He looked out over the pitch, the crowd still singing. "You remember Senderos?" he asked.
Scholes nodded slowly. "That lad had it all. But Drogba broke him mentally, not physically. Arsenal lost a great defender not because of ability, but because no one helped him recover. I won't let that happen to Jones."
Scholes gave a small smile. "You think more like a father than a manager sometimes, Captain."
Tiger shrugged. "A good father knows when to be harsh, and when to put an arm around the shoulder."
A beat passed. Then Scholes grinned. "Alright, one last question. Why the press conference taunt? The 'see them, destroy them' bit? That's not like you."
Tiger let out a deep laugh. "Ah, that. You see, Paul... we were sulking after the City match. Low energy. No bite. I needed something to light a fire under them. So I picked a fight. And what better way to rile them up than to point at Liverpool and say — those lads are your battlefield."
Scholes clapped once. "Well, whatever you did... it worked. They're out there playing like wolves."
Tiger's eyes never left the pitch. "That's all I wanted."
Scholes suddenly clicked his fingers as the pieces fell into place. "So that's why the lads were so fired up in training this morning. I've never seen them that sharp on a matchday eve. Their whole demeanor changed—focused, aggressive, hungry. That was your plan all along!"
Tiger King grinned, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulders. "Sometimes, Paul, a little provocation can do wonders. Stirring the pot gets the blood boiling."
He leaned back in his seat, eyes glinting.
"By mocking the opposition, I didn't just rile Liverpool—I woke up my team. When you point at your enemy and say, 'That's the one,' your players instinctively tighten their fists."
Then his tone turned slightly reflective. "You know who mastered this tactic? Mourinho. Love him or hate him, he knows how to shield his players. He baits the press, picks fights, draws all the attention to himself... so the pressure slides off the players. What's left? Just football. Just fire."
Scholes laughed, genuinely impressed. "Captain, you never stop surprising me. You've got the blueprint of Sir Alex's tactics and the cunning of Mourinho's mind games."
From a few seats down, Eric Steele leaned over, overhearing them. "What's next? You going to start wearing a trench coat like Arsène?"
Tiger laughed. "Only if we beat them next round!"
Then Scholes chuckled and shook his head. "Honestly, I feel lucky to be here, Captain. Standing beside you, learning all this—I mean it. Tactics, motivation, man-management… You've got the whole package."
Tiger's smile faded into something more earnest. "Stick around, Paul. There's still so much more to build. And I can't do it alone."
The two coaches were still deep in conversation on the sidelines, their focus momentarily drifting away from the pitch—just for a moment. But in a game like this, a moment was all it took.
Unbeknownst to them, the match had exploded again.
They both turned back to the pitch as Martial chased another through-ball, the night burning bright with purpose.
The tempo was still frantic, exactly like the opening minutes—if anything, it was even more unhinged. It was as if both sides had signed an unspoken pact: no defense tonight. Full-backs were marauding forward with reckless abandon, midfielders sprinted like wild dogs, and the space between lines yawned wide open.
In the 14th minute, Liverpool struck.
Jordan Henderson picked up the ball in midfield and immediately body-checked Ryan Giggs aside with a raw burst of energy. The veteran simply couldn't keep up.
Henderson surged forward, eating up yards toward the edge of the United box. Ahead of him, the Red Sea parted—Suárez, Coutinho, and Sturridge buzzed like wasps inside the penalty area, demanding the ball.
Martin Tyler on commentary: "Henderson has plenty of options here—Suárez is peeling away, Coutinho's calling for it… but wait—he doesn't play it forward—he's shifted it sideways..."
Carragher jumped in: "It's Gerrard! The captain's charging in like a freight train—he's hit it first-time—"
Neville, shouting: "It's a thunderbolt!!"
Tyler roared: "GOAL! Liverpool equalise! Steven Gerrard—vintage, ruthless, unstoppable!"
The away section of Old Trafford exploded into chaos. Red flares lit up the sky like warning shots, and the traveling Kop erupted in a chorus of fury and joy.
"That's our captain!"
"Long live Liverpool!"
"Let United rot!"
Back on the touchline, Scholes was fuming. He slammed his fist into the advertising board. "Damn it! We let Gerrard walk into that one—again!"
Tiger King didn't flinch. He simply sighed, hands on his hips. "Paul, you played with Gerrard for years—you know as well as I do, with our current midfield, who's going to stop him?"
Scholes glared toward the pitch. Fletcher was retreating, Giggs was bent over, gasping for breath. Neither had been within a yard of Gerrard before the shot. Scholes didn't reply—but his clenched jaw said enough. If he still had boots, he'd be on the pitch.
Despite the setback, Tiger didn't panic. "This was always going to be an attacking match," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "The real question is—who scores more. We just need to keep creating chances. Stay sharp. And the win will come."
He turned his gaze toward the pitch, eyes narrowed.
The fight was on.
And tonight, Old Trafford would play host to a war of goals.