The initial moments on the pitch felt like a total blur.
The green turf under Llori’s boots was remarkably slick, watered thoroughly before kickoff and continuously soaked by the steady Manchester drizzle. He stood near the left touchline, his arms hanging slightly away from his body, taking deep, rapid breaths to calm his racing pulse.
Across from him, Aaron Cresswell adjusted his captain's armband, staring at the seventeen-year-old with narrow, dismissive eyes.
A kid, Cresswell’s expression seemed to say. They brought on an academy boy to defend a 1-0 lead.
In the 76th minute, Llori’s first touch in professional football arrived.
Diogo Dalot recovered a loose ball near the center circle and quickly fired a firm ground pass out wide to the left wing. Llori backed up a step, reaching out his right boot to cushion the ball.
Before the leather even touched his studs, Vladimir Coufal stepped out from the central line like a freight train.
BANG!
Coufal smashed into Llori’s upper back with full shoulder-to-shoulder force, completely overwhelming the teenager's balance. Llori went tumbling headfirst into the damp grass, losing the ball cleanly.
West Ham snatched possession instantly, launching a rapid counter-attack down the right flank that required a desperate clearance from Lisandro Martínez.
The referee waved play on, completely ignoring Llori's fall.
"Get up, Llori!" Martínez barked loudly from the central box, slapping his thighs in anger. "Welcome to the Premier League! Stand up and demand the ball again!"
Llori pushed himself off the cold turf, his palms stained with dark green mud and bits of rubber infill.
His shoulder throbbed from the impact, and his breath hitched in his throat. The raw physical power of senior men was lightyears ahead of anything he had experienced in the Under-21 league.
"Don't worry about it, kid!" Luke Shaw called out, jogging past him. "Shake it off! Get wide!"
Two minutes later, in the 79th minute, another opportunity came.
Luke Shaw intercepted a clever flick from Jarrod Bowen and played a short, simple pass straight into Llori’s feet near the touchline.
This time, terrified of getting hit from behind again, Llori didn't try to turn. He didn't even look forward.
With one nervous touch of his left boot, he passed the ball straight back to Shaw, opting for the safest possible decision.
A faint, collective sigh of quiet frustration hummed from the Stretford End stands directly behind the goal line.
"Don't play safe!" Ten Hag roared from the edge of the technical area, gesturing furiously with both hands pointing forward. "Drive at him, Llori! Drive!"
Llori stood isolated on the touchline, wiping sweat and rain from his forehead with his sleeve.
His legs felt heavy, like lead weights pulled down by the crippling fear of making a match-costing mistake. Across from him, Cresswell took two steps closer, smirking slightly, nudging Llori's shoulder as they waited for a throw-in.
"You okay there, son?" Cresswell muttered under his breath, his voice laced with quiet sarcasm. "Need a minute to adjust?"
Llori slowly lowered his arm, his hands clenching into tight, white-knuckled fists.
Something shifted deep in his chest—a sudden, dark spark of pride overriding the panic.
They think I'm weak, Llori thought, his brown eyes narrowing as he locked his gaze onto the ball. They think I'm just a fancy name from the academy.
The match entered the 84th minute, and West Ham threw every available player forward in search of an equalizer.
Declan Rice unleashed a stinging, thirty-yard rocket that David de Gea barely managed to tip over the crossbar with a finger-tip save. From the resulting corner, Harry Maguire rose highest, heading the ball forcefully out of the penalty box toward the center circle.
Bruno Fernandes tracked the second ball, shielding it expertly from Tomas Soucek with his back, before spinning around in a single movement.
Bruno didn't look down. He knew exactly where his winger was supposed to be.
With a sweeping motion of his right boot, Bruno launched a high, arching diagonal pass out toward the left touchline, fifty yards down the pitch.
"LLORI! GO!" Bruno screamed at the top of his lungs.
Llori didn't hesitate. He took off like an arrow released from a bow.
The ball descended fast through the misty night air, spinning rapidly. Cresswell was retreating backward at full speed, intending to use his shoulder to muscle the teenager off the pitch the moment the ball landed.
Llori read the trajectory perfectly.
Instead of waiting for the ball to hit the wet grass, Llori leapt slightly into the air, reaching up with his right leg.
With an astounding, delicate touch from the outside of his boot, he killed the ball's momentum dead in mid-air. The leather settled softly on the turf right in front of his stride, perfectly weighted for full-speed continuation.
The crowd in the South Stand let out an audible, collective gasp.
"Go on, kid!" a loud voice roared from the front row of the stands.
Llori didn't slow down. Cresswell rushed in frantically, throwing his leg wide to execute a desperate block.
Llori didn't cut inside with his right foot as everyone expected. Instead, using his left boot—his other side—he executed a lightning-fast double stepover, shifting his body weight with terrifying fluidity.
Left foot over, right foot over.
Cresswell’s knees buckled under the sudden change of direction, his studs slipping helplessly on the slick turf.
Llori knocked the ball past Cresswell’s exposed right side, exploding past him down the touchline into wide-open space!
"FARRIS BREAKS AWAY!" the television commentator shrieked into his microphone. "THE SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD HAS LEFT CRESSWELL IN THE DUST!"
Kurt Zouma came sliding across from the center-back position to cover the gap, his massive frame covering the near side of the penalty area.
Llori’s world narrowed down to a tiny, laser-focused point.
He saw Marcus Rashford charging toward the far post, calling for a low cross. But he also noticed Zouma leaning heavily toward the passing lane, anticipating the team-first square ball.
Generous players get applause, Bruno’s words echoed clearly in Llori’s mind. Selfish players get goals.
Llori planted his left foot hard into the mud, cut inside sharply onto his right foot, and left Zouma sliding uselessly out of bounds on the wet grass.
He was inside the box, twelve yards out, facing Lukasz Fabianski one-on-one.
The Polish goalkeeper sprinted off his line, spreading his arms and legs wide to cover the entire bottom corner of the net.
Llori raised his right leg back, winding up for a powerful, laces-first strike into the top corner.
Fabianski committed instantly, throwing his body downward to block the hard shot.
At the absolute last microsecond, Llori stopped his downswing.
With incredible ankle flexibility, he subtly shifted his foot angle, using the inside of his boot to lift the ball—a feather-light, delicate scoop right over the goalkeeper’s outstretched arms.
The ball floated gracefully through the damp night air, spinning softly as it arced over Fabianski.
Kurt Zouma sprinted back desperately, throwing his leg up for an overhead clearance on the goal line, but the ball clipped the underside of the crossbar and bounced violently into the back of the net!
THWACK!
The referee pointed to the center circle.
GOAL! Manchester United 2, West Ham United 0.
For a fraction of a second, Old Trafford went dead silent, as if seventy-five thousand people could not process the pure audacity of the finish.
Then, the stadium erupted into an absolute, volcanic explosion of noise.
"OH MY WORD!" the commentator screamed into his headset, his voice cracking with emotion. "TALK ABOUT AN ENTRANCE! LLORI ANNA FARRIS! REMEMBER THE NAME! A TOUCH OF PURE, UNADULTERATED GENIUS FROM THE SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD TO SEAL THE THREE POINTS!"
Llori stood frozen near the penalty spot, his eyes wide as he looked at the white net still shaking from the impact.
Then, the adrenaline hit his blood like a lightning bolt.
He turned and sprinted toward the corner flag, jumping into the air before sliding on both knees across the drenched grass, throwing his arms wide open toward the screaming Stretford End!
Within seconds, he was buried under a pile of red shirts.
Bruno Fernandes grabbed Llori’s face in both hands, screaming pure joy into his ears, shaking him vigorously.
"YOU CRAZY BOY!" Bruno yelled over the deafening noise of the fans. "WHAT A FINISH! WHAT A BLOODY FINISH!"
Lisandro Martínez pulled Llori up by his jersey collar, aggressively slapping his chest, laughing like a madman.
"THAT IS HOW YOU FIGHT!" Martínez roared, wrapping his arms around the teenager in a tight bear hug.
Over on the technical touchline, Steve McClaren was high-fiving every bench player in sight, while Erik ten Hag stood on the edge of the pitch, nodding slowly, a rare, proud smile breaking across his stern face.
The referee blew the final whistle two minutes later.
Full Time: Manchester United 2, West Ham United 0.
As the players shook hands after the whistle, Declan Rice walked directly up to Llori, pulling his shirt off and holding it out.
"Incredible skill, mate," Rice said with genuine, deep respect, shaking Llori’s hand firmly. "That scoop was world-class. Keep going."
"Thank you, Declan," Llori gasped out, taking the shirt with trembling, exhausted hands. "Thank you so much."
Ten Hag waited at the mouth of the tunnel as the squad headed toward the dressing room.
When Llori approached, the manager placed a firm, warm hand on the back of the teenager's neck, pulling him in close.
"You didn't shrink," Ten Hag murmured quietly, his eyes cold, sharp, and deeply satisfied. "You grew."
"I just wanted to help the team, Boss," Llori said softly, wiping rainwater from his eyes.
"You made a statement," Ten Hag corrected him smoothly. "Tomorrow morning. 8 AM. Video analysis. We will look at the two times you gave the ball away early on."
Llori smiled through his sweat and exhaustion, clutching Declan Rice's jersey tight against his chest.
"I'll be there, Boss," Llori said.
As he stepped into the warm glow of the tunnel, listening to the crowd outside still chanting his name, Llori Anna Farris knew one thing for certain:
The journey had only just begun—and Old Trafford had found its newest star.
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