The briefing room at Carrington felt like a pressure cooker.
Outside, the rain had turned into a thick, persistent slush that coated the windowpanes. Inside, Erik ten Hag was pacing in front of the tactical board, his bald head gleaming under the bright fluorescent lights, his face red with manic tactical energy.
Llori Anna Farris sat in his usual chair, a ice pack wrapped tightly around his left calf. Beside him, Lisandro Martínez was trying—and failing—to stifle a massive yawn, while Marcus Rashford looked like he was contemplating the meaning of life.
It was 7:30 AM on a Tuesday morning. Two days after the brutal victory in London.
Ten Hag aggressively slapped a magnetic white marker against the board.
CLACK!
"Focus!" Ten Hag barked, his Dutch accent cutting through the tired room like a lawnmower. "You think because we beat Spurs in London we can relax? Liverpool is coming to Old Trafford on Sunday. Arne Slot's system is not like Tottenham. It is a tactical machine. They play a high-volume, inverted pressing scheme with a double pivot that shifts into a asymmetric 3-2-5 structure in buildup!"
Ten Hag grabbed three red markers, two blue markers, and a yellow highlighter, drawing twenty-six different arrows across the board in four seconds until the entire surface looked like a modern art painting created by a confused octopus.
"Look at this!" Ten Hag demanded, pointing at a chaotic web of lines near the center. "When their left-back tucks inside, the central midfielder drops into the half-space. Llori!"
Llori sat up straight instantly, almost dropping his ice pack. "Yes, Boss?"
"Look at line C-4," Ten Hag ordered, pointing at a squiggly green line that overlapped a red circle. "In phase two of our mid-block, when Van Dijk has the ball, I want you to press at a thirty-five-degree angle. Not thirty degrees. Not forty degrees. Thirty-five degrees. If you approach at thirty degrees, Trent Arnold has the passing lane to Salah. If you approach at forty degrees, Szoboszlai turns into space behind you. Do you understand?"
Llori blinked, staring at the green squiggle. He leaned sideways, whispering under his breath to Bruno Fernandes.
"Bruno... how do I measure thirty-five degrees with my legs while running at twenty miles an hour?"
Bruno didn't even look up from his coffee. "You don't. You just run hard and hope he doesn't replace you with Garnacho."
"Thirty-five degrees, Llori!" Ten Hag repeated, tapping the marker against the glass board so hard it nearly snapped. "And when we win the ball, I don't want you just running into open space like a wild horse. I want a delayed inverted diagonal cut! You wait three seconds, bait the center-back, then make a curved run behind their high line! Steve, show them the video!"
Steve McClaren hit a button on the laptop.
The screen flashed, but instead of tactical footage of Liverpool, a local Manchester news clip popped up. On the screen was a live broadcast from outside the Carrington gates. A group of ten teenage fans were standing in the rain, holding up a massive handmade banner that read: LLORI FARRIS > TRENT ALEXANDER-ARNOLD.
Below the text was a terribly drawn cartoon of Llori wearing a superhero cape, flying over Cristian Romero.
The entire dressing room exploded into sudden, uncontrollable laughter.
Lisandro Martínez clapped his hands loudly, nearly falling off his stool. "Look at the hero! Look at Captain Llori! Where is your cape, boy?!"
"Is that supposed to be your face, Llori?!" Rashford wheezed, pointing at the cartoon. "Why do you have three arms on that banner?!"
Llori covered his face with both hands, his ears burning bright red with pure embarrassment. "Oh my god... Steve, turn it off. Please turn it off."
"Silence!" Ten Hag yelled, though even his stern lips twitched with a microscopic smirk before he regained control of his face. "McClaren, fix the video! We are not here to watch local cartoons! We are here to talk about thirty-five-degree pressing angles!"
Llori leaned back in his seat, letting out a long, quiet sigh. Thirty-five degrees, he thought, shaking his head. The boss is officially losing his mind.
The training pitch was a swamp.
For three straight days, Ten Hag subjected the squad to what the players privately called "The Geometry Hours."
Instead of normal small-sided games, Ten Hag had actually drawn bright yellow paint lines across Pitch 2, dividing the field into tiny geometric grids. Llori was forced to run back and forth inside Grid B-3, trying to memorize the exact angle of his body when pressing the fullback.
"No! No! No!" Ten Hag’s voice boomed through a megaphone from the sidelines. "Llori! That was thirty-two degrees! You left two meters of space on the inside!"
Llori stopped mid-sprint, wiping mud and freezing rain off his eyelashes, looking toward the sideline with total disbelief.
"Boss!" Llori shouted back through the pouring rain, holding his arms out. "My legs don't have a protractor attached to them! How am I supposed to know thirty-two degrees from thirty-five?!"
"Adjust your hips!" Ten Hag bellowed back through the megaphone. "If you complain again, you run ten laps around Grid C!"
Beside Llori, Luke Shaw was panting heavily, his hands resting on his knees, covered in yellow mud.
"I've been in professional football for ten years, Llori," Shaw muttered, coughing slightly as he wiped his face. "I have never in my life been yelled at for three degrees of hip rotation. The boss has lost his marbels."
"If I have to look at another yellow painted line, Luke," Llori groaned, rolling his shoulders, "I’m going to start seeing grid squares in my sleep."
"Save your breath, kid," Casemiro said, jogging past them with a calm, veteran smile. "On Sunday, none of these lines matter. On Sunday, it's just blood and thunder."
Sunday afternoon arrived, and Old Trafford was a powder keg ready to blow.
The North West Derby between Manchester United and Liverpool was not just another football match—it was a ancestral feud built on decades of fierce regional rivalry, historical dominance, and pure, raw hatred. Seventy-five thousand fans packed the stands hours before kickoff. The air inside the stadium was thick with flare smoke, the smell of rain, stale lager, and pie crusts.
The Liverpool fans high in the away section were screaming at the top of their lungs, while the Stretford End responded with a wall of sound so loud it made the concrete steps under Llori's boots vibrate.
Inside the dressing room, the comedy of the week had completely vanished.
Ten Hag stood in the center, his face pale, his eyes sharp and serious.
"Forget the grids," Ten Hag said, his voice dropping into a deep, guttural tone that gripped every player in the room. "Forget the angles. Today is about respect. Today, you show Liverpool who owns this pitch. You fight for every ball as if your life depends on it."
Llori pulled his shirt down over his shoulder pads.
47 — FARRIS.
He looked at his reflection in his glass locker door. His hands were steady. The nerves were gone, replaced by a dark, hungry anticipation.
At 4:25 PM, both teams stepped out into the dark, roaring concrete tunnel.
Standing directly across from Llori on the right side of Liverpool's defense was Trent Alexander-Arnold. The English international looked relaxed, casually adjusting his socks, leaning against the tunnel wall. Beside him stood Virgil van Dijk, a mountain of a man who loomed over everyone in the hallway like an immovable wall.
Van Dijk looked down at Llori, his eyes lingering on the seventeen-year-old for two long seconds.
Llori didn't look away. He adjusted his shinguards, stretched his neck, and stared right back at the Dutch defender.
PIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!
The referee blew his whistle, leading both teams out onto the pitch.
BOOOOOM!
A deafening explosion of cheers, chants, and pyrotechnics greeted them as they stepped onto the lush, emerald turf under the brilliant white floodlights.
At 4:30 PM, the whistle sounded, and the chaos began.
The first twenty minutes were an absolute war zone.
Liverpool pressed with terrifying, mechanical speed. Mohamed Salah and Cody Gakpo swarmed United's backline, forcing heavy clearances into the misty sky. Every single duel was fought with bone-crunching intensity.
In the 14th minute, Liverpool drew first blood.
Alexis Mac Allister won a loose ball in the center circle and unleashed a curling, long-range pass behind Luke Shaw. Mohamed Salah sprinted onto the ball, cut inside onto his lethal left foot, and whipped a curling strike into the far corner past David de Gea!
GOAL! Manchester United 0, Liverpool 1.
The away section erupted into a sea of red flares and deafening chants, while a heavy, tense hush fell over the home supporters.
Salah ran toward the corner flag, celebrating with his teammates, while United’s players gathered near the penalty box to regroup.
Llori stood on the left touchline, his chest heaving, his boots dripping with water.
Trent Alexander-Arnold walked past him, a small, subtle smile on his face. "Nice cape, kid," Trent murmured softly as he trotted into position. "Need thirty-five degrees to catch that one?"
Llori’s eyes narrowed into tiny slits.
Right, Llori thought, a cold, fierce heat rising in his chest. No more geometry.
In the 29th minute, Llori found his moment.
Bruno Fernandes intercepted a loose header from Ryan Gravenberch and immediately turned toward the left flank.
Llori didn't wait for a delayed diagonal run. He didn't check if he was at thirty-five degrees. He simply exploded into full stride down the touchline, demanding the ball with a sharp wave of his hand!
"BRUNO FINDS FARRIS!" the commentator shouted.
Bruno fired a thirty-yard, curling pass that dropped over Trent Alexander-Arnold's head.
Trent sprinted back, using his body to shield the ball, expecting Llori to try and slow down to control it.
Llori didn't slow down.
As the ball bounced off the wet turf, Llori threw his entire weight forward, executing a stunning, mid-air hocus-pocus flick with the heel of his right boot—flicking the ball over Trent’s shoulder while both of them were moving at full speed!
"WHAT A FLICK!" the commentator shrieked.
Trent spun around in utter shock, his boots slipping on the drenched grass as Llori gathered the ball on the other side, entering the penalty area from the left channel!
Virgil van Dijk stepped out from the center, his massive frame blocking the route to the goal, his long legs spread wide to prevent a low cross.
Llori approached the Dutch giant at blinding speed.
Van Dijk was patient. He didn't dive in. He held his ground, waiting for Llori to make a move.
Llori dropped his left shoulder hard, pretending to drive toward the baseline. Van Dijk shifted his body weight half an inch to his right—a microscopic movement that only an elite winger would notice.
In that split second, Llori executed an explosive, lightning-fast elastico-trivela—flicking the ball outside with his right foot, then instantly snapping it back through Van Dijk’s wide-open legs!
NUTMEG!
The entire stadium let out an audible, unified gasp!
"HE'S MEGGED VAN DIJK!" the commentator roared, his voice cracking violently. "UNBELIEVABLE!"
Llori burst through the gap, facing Alisson Becker one-on-one from six yards out!
Alisson rushed off his line, spreading his body into a wall of yellow jersey to smother the bottom corner.
Llori didn't wind up for a hard strike. Remembering nothing of Ten Hag's tactical grids and everything of his own pure, street-bred instinct, Llori used his right boot to execute a feather-light, short-range no-look scoop—lifting the ball right over Alisson's extended forearm!
The ball floated gracefully through the humid air, spinning softly, clipping the underside of the crossbar before bouncing violently into the back of the net!
THWACK!
GOAL! Manchester United 1, Liverpool 1.
The entire Old Trafford stadium went absolutely, completely insane!
Seventy-five thousand fans leapt to their feet in a volcanic explosion of noise that shook the very roof of the stadium!
Llori didn't execute a simple slide. He sprinted full speed toward the corner flag, leapt high into the cold air, and executed an iconic, spinning celebration before landing on both feet, spreading his arms wide open toward the screaming Stretford End!
"THIS IS MY HOUSE!" Llori screamed at the top of his lungs, his face flushed with pure, unadulterated passion!
Within seconds, he was flattened under a wave of red shirts.
Lisandro Martínez sprinted eighty yards from his own box to tackle Llori to the ground, screaming in Spanish, grabbing Llori's jersey and shaking him violently!
"YOU NUTMEGGED VAN DIJK!" Lisandro yelled over the deafening roar of the fans, laughing hysterically. "YOU MAD BOY! YOU MEGGED HIM!"
Bruno Fernandes piled on top, grabbing Llori’s face in both hands. "THAT IS FOOTBALL, LLORI! THAT IS BLOODY FOOTBALL!"
Over on the technical line, Erik ten Hag stood completely frozen for two seconds, his mouth slightly open, before he suddenly turned to Steve McClaren, threw his tactical clipboard into the air, and started high-fiving everyone on the bench like a madman!
"No thirty-five degrees!" Steve McClaren yelled into Ten Hag's ear over the noise. "No thirty-five degrees at all!"
"Who cares about angles?!" Ten Hag roared back, a rare, massive grin covering his face. "Look at the finish!"
The match resumed, turning into an absolute, high-octane battle of legendary proportions.
Liverpool were shaken to their core. Van Dijk looked visibly stunned, while Trent Alexander-Arnold was forced to play fifty yards deeper to prevent Llori from exploiting the space behind him.
In the 64th minute, Liverpool fought back. Dominik Szoboszlai unleashed a thirty-yard rocket that hit the crossbar, and Darwin Núñez missed a wide-open header from four yards out, keeping the score tied at 1-1.
The match entered the 89th minute, both teams exhausted, their jerseys caked in mud, their lungs screaming for air under the freezing Manchester rain.
United launched one final, desperate attack.
Casemiro won a heavy tackle near the center circle and poked the ball to Bruno Fernandes. Bruno saw Llori standing wide on the left, double-teamed by Trent and Ryan Gravenberch.
Bruno fired a sharp, flat pass straight into Llori's feet.
Llori controlled the ball with his left boot, his body dripping with sweat and rain.
Gravenberch stepped in to tackle, while Trent stood two yards back to cover the inside turn.
Llori didn't try to beat both men with speed. Instead, he dropped his hips, executed a subtle, triple stepover that sent Gravenberch leaning off balance, and then delivered a magnificent, curling trivela cross with the outside of his right boot into the heart of the six-yard box!
The ball curled through the air like a guided missile, slicing right between Van Dijk and Konaté!
Marcus Rashford came flying in at the back post, diving headfirst through the wet air to power a thunderous header past Alisson into the top corner of the net!
GOAL! Manchester United 2, Liverpool 1.
The stadium transformed into a scene of absolute, pure delirium!
Rashford ran straight to Llori, grabbing him in a massive bear hug, lifting the seventeen-year-old high off the ground as seventy-five thousand fans sang at the absolute top of their lungs!
Four minutes of brutal injury time ticked away.
The referee lifted his whistle to his lips and blew three long, beautiful blasts.
PII-PII-PIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!
Full Time: Manchester United 2, Liverpool 1.
The players collapsed onto the mud, completely spent, having given every drop of energy in their bodies.
As Llori stood near the tunnel entrance, catching his breath, Virgil van Dijk walked slowly up to him.
The massive Dutch defender looked down at the seventeen-year-old, a small, weary smile breaking across his face. He pulled his Liverpool jersey off and handed it to Llori.
"The nutmeg was dirty, kid," Van Dijk said in a deep, respectful voice, shaking Llori's hand firmly. "Very dirty. Great game."
Llori took the jersey, handing Van Dijk his own red number 47 shirt. "Thank you, Virgil. It was an honor."
As Llori walked down the tunnel, Erik ten Hag was waiting at the bottom of the steps, holding a bottle of water.
The manager looked at Llori, then looked down at his own clipboard lying wet on the floor.
"Boss," Llori said with a mischievous smile, wiping rain from his forehead. "Was that press at thirty-five degrees?"
Ten Hag looked at the young star, shook his head softly, and pulled Llori into a tight, warm hug.
"Forget thirty-five degrees, Llori," Ten Hag murmured quietly, his eyes glowing with pride. "You just wrote your name into Old Trafford history."
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