By, Springbewsng Media limited February 28,2025 Alejandro Garnacho stormed down the tunnel, his boots echoing through the hollow corridor beneath Old Trafford. His jaw was clenched, his mind racing. Substituted before halftime? Him?

He kicked at a stray water bottle, sending it skidding across the floor. He barely noticed the staff members staring as he disappeared into the dressing room. He had given everything on the pitch—run his lungs out, tracked back, pressed high. And yet, as soon as Patrick Dorgu saw red, he was the sacrifice. Not Bruno. Not Amad. Him.

He slumped onto the bench, fuming.

By the time the final whistle blew, United had secured a 3-2 win. But Garnacho was nowhere near the celebrations. His frustration sat heavy in his chest, tightening with every second that passed.

A knock at the door.

Ruben Amorim stepped in, his expression unreadable. The Portuguese manager walked in with the calm authority that had already reshaped the squad.

“You know why I’m here,” Amorim said, arms crossed.

Garnacho exhaled sharply. “I was upset. I want to play. I—”

“We all want to play.” Amorim’s voice was even, but firm. “But walking down that tunnel, sulking, refusing to support your team? That’s not the attitude I need from you.”

The silence stretched. Garnacho’s fingers curled into fists.

“I see your talent, Alejandro,” Amorim continued. “But talent alone isn’t enough. You have a choice—show me you belong in this team, or watch someone else take your place.”

Garnacho swallowed. He had heard the rumors. Rashford was leaving. Antony too. But now, another name floated in the press—Geovany Quenda.

Amorim sighed, then placed a hand on Garnacho’s shoulder. “You’ve got until the end of the season to prove to me why you should stay.”

As the manager left, Garnacho sat alone, his anger cooling into something else—determination.

This wasn’t the end. Not yet.

He would fight for his future.